


Liminality

by Phnx



Series: Liminality [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, That ends very quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phnx/pseuds/Phnx
Summary: Harry Potter, saviour of magical Britain, has proved himself to be great at dying and coming back again. He’s just not as good at the bits in between coming back and dying again.-or-The Diary Horcrux lived on in Ginny when the diary was destroyed.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Harry Potter/Diary Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Teddy Lupin & Harry Potter, Tom Riddle & Ginny Weasley
Series: Liminality [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935538
Comments: 173
Kudos: 850





	1. The Quitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is finished, but I'm still in the process of editing it. I'll be putting up a chapter a week.

_It’s dead easy to die. It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard._ — Robert Service, “The Quitter”

* * *

Harry James Potter is twenty-three years old, and he's doing alright.

He has a job that he doesn't love but doesn't hate, and he has a girlfriend who he likewise doesn't love but doesn't hate, which he figures is pretty great after five consecutive years of dating plus that bit during sixth year. In comparison, Ron and Hermione have had about a million explosive fights including seven break up scares in the same amount of time, and Harry never knows if this break up will be the last one. Harry does hate the fighting, and he does hate the idea of a permanent rift separating his first two friends. He lies awake some nights, nearly feverish with fear at the thought of having to choose between one friend or the other, or even losing them both.

He has started to wonder whether maybe his and Ginny's success means that he should be ring shopping. He thinks he'd like that. Or the idea of it, anyway. At the very least, he wouldn't hate it.

Ginny stands in the entrance of Grimmauld Place, her hair long and heavy, darkened and weighed down by the rainwater dripping from its tips. In the candlelight, its strands alternate between flickering red shadows and glowing copper, creating an illusion of flames dancing around her head. He thinks she has never been more beautiful than she is now, in this moment, but there is no molten heat rising within him, his heart skips no beats. Old age, he suspects, and raises his eyebrows at his guest.

She looks up at him, her eyes laughing, and she wrinkles her freckled nose at him. "I think," she says solemnly, "that I might be in need of a towel."

Harry shakes his head in mock disappointment. "So demanding," he sighs. He summons a towel with a lethargic wave of his wand and flicks it straight into her face, and he grins when she shrieks.

Dinner with Ginny is nice, as it always is, and she leaves after helping him clean up, as she often does. She has an early morning tomorrow, and he had an early morning today, and they're both ready for the evening to be over by the time the last dish is dried and levitated into the cupboard. The nice thing about this calm state after love, Harry thinks, is that they needn't follow the standard script of a night of wild sex after the date is over, not when neither of them is really interested.

He kisses her on the cheek and closes the door behind her. This was the first time he'd seen Ginny in three weeks. He wonders how many weeks will go by before he sees her next.

At least they're not fighting.

* * *

Harry wanders into his office in the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic the next morning and begins his work day with neither resentment nor enthusiasm.

It only takes ten minutes before there’s a queue of junior aurors in front of his door.

“Potter, I was hoping for some advice on this case,” says Junior Auror Everett.

Harry looks down at the casefile and then looks back up at Everett blankly. The case is of a lost kneazle.

Harry should not be a senior auror. He knows this, and probably everyone who’s sane knows this. Harry isn’t particularly knowledgeable, or particularly clever, or particularly experienced. He is, admittedly, very nearly unparalleled when it comes to magical fighting and duels, but outside of covert operations against rising Dark Lords, auror work contains much less fighting and many more visitations to elderly witches than most of the public would likely suspect. At twenty-three years old, he should, at most, be a full auror, and probably not even that. But so many aurors died in the past war, fighting for one side or another, and most of the aurors who survived and didn’t take early retirement were promoted to other areas of the ministry.

This means that Harry is not only a senior auror, he is in fact one of the ten oldest active aurors, and it’s never more obvious that this is the case than when he’s advising a junior auror on how to handle searching for a missing pet.

Harry looks out at the queue at his office door. “How many of you have lost-pet cases?”

A disturbingly high number of hands go up.

“Alright, I want you eight to head down to Storeroom 7.” Harry digs around in his desk drawer and snags a room-requisition form. He taps his wand against the form to duplicate it, and then he scribbles in the necessary information. “Share your case details and brainstorm different approaches. I’ll check in with you in a bit.” He hands the completed form to Everett.

Harry looks to the next person in the dwindling queue. “And what’s your case on?”

“Missing jewelry,” comes the glum response.

“Cursed?” asks Harry hopefully.

The junior auror shakes his head. “Not according to the statement.”

Harry sighs. “Everyone with missing items, down to Storeroom 13!” he calls, and fills out another form. Eleven more junior aurors vanish from his queue.

“Who’s next?”

There is no head of the DMLE. No one has the skills and experience to be the department head, and so instead there is a very small oligarchy of senior aurors who run the department together until Kingsley settles on a replacement. It’s been five years, now, so Harry isn’t optimistic that this will happen any time soon. Recruiting has taken a priority.

The Auror Department now, finally, boasts as many aurors as it had before the war: just over fifty. However, where the department seniority used to be distributed along a bell-shaped curve, with most members being full aurors, the department now consists overwhelmingly of junior aurors and trainees.

The postbellum magical world has been peaceful enough that the fifteen full aurors—mostly Harry’s age—are able to handle most of the dangerous criminal activity, leaving the endless ocean of misdemeanors and suspicious artifacts investigations to teams of junior aurors. Harry and the other three senior aurors have been primarily relegated to overseeing the junior aurors.

When the last of the junior aurors have been sorted and sent off, Harry leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and clears his mind. He’s found it’s easier to do when he’s trying to stave off a headache than it was when he was trying to defend his mind against professors and dark lords.

Harry is mostly content with his routine these days, and when he feels as though he’s drowning under the weight of expectations, he can usually settle himself by disappearing under his cloak and finding a quiet room to sit in for an hour or two.

It had taken him a long time to get to that point. Just after the war, he had been desperate for a place where he could duck his head and fade away. Somewhere without owls popping in all the time with letters, and a constantly active Floo. Somewhere that no one could find him to bother him.

So, he’d disguised himself and bought a flat through a muggle agency under a muggle alias, and for some time, it had been his oasis. He’d lived there secretly for months, not even telling Ron and Hermione any more than that he needed to ‘get away.’ Eventually, he reached the point where he would leave to visit his friends, and then he began training and working for the auror department. As he began to settle into his new life, and as the magical world began to calm down about him a little, he found himself needing his safe house less and less often.

Three years ago, he’d moved into Grimmauld Place full time. He brought Ginny to see the old flat he’d lived in as a sort of milestone for himself. He didn’t need it anymore, and he wanted someone to see how far he’d come.

He didn’t entirely expect Ginny to understand, but she’d smiled at him warmly, held his hand, and told him she was proud of him.

* * *

He already has rings on his mind when Ron and Hermione show up to lunch. He's been waiting for some time, stroking his fingers absently over the raised scars on the back of his hand, and wondering what sort of rings Ginny would like. Something plain, he suspects, and she wouldn't wear it most days anyway, because of work.

Ron and Hermione arrive already bickering, and Harry's stomach twists unpleasantly, so that it takes him a moment to notice what's different.

"Rings?" he asks, not bothering to hide his surprise.

Hermione laughs at him. "I wondered when you'd notice! I thought it would take longer, honestly."

"You owe me a sickle, 'Mione," says Ron smugly.

"Er," says Harry. "Er. Congratulations?"

Both Ron and Hermione frown at him. "Is everything alright, Harry?" she asks, suddenly uncertain. "This can't be much of a shocker. I mean, we've been dating for so long."

"But you're always fighting," Harry bursts out. "Constantly!"

They laugh, seeming to relax. Harry's not sure why, since if anything, he feels more tense.

Hermione, of course, notices, and hurries to reassure him. "That's just the sort of couple we are, Harry. I think we'd get bored if we were always having calm, civil conversations like you and Ginny."

Ron grins. "And wasn't that the real surprise! Knowing how you two get on your own, I'd never have guessed you two would be so mellow when you're put together."

"...Right," says Harry. "Well, if this makes you two happy, then it makes me happy, too. Bit early for drinks-on-me, though."

They smile at him, happy and pleased. "No worries, mate," says Ron. "We'll remember you owe us one tonight."

* * *

Harry is twenty-three, and he's confused.

If this is a midlife crisis, that doesn't bode well for his longevity.

* * *

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had rarely fought with one another. They’d been so close in all things, so content in their separate familial duties, so unified in their goals, that it often seemed to Harry that he was raised by a single, two-headed, four-armed adult with the curious ability to appear in two places at once. The closest his aunt and uncle ever seemed to come was a sort of mutual fury over the same third party—usually Harry—that left them spluttering and ranting madly at one another, agreeing on all points, until they came to a solution together.

For Harry, these pseudo-arguments always promised pain.

Harry watches Hermione and Ron closely over drinks that night. He tries to imagine them sinking into one-another the way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had seemed to, becoming a single entity with a single purpose.

It’s impossible.

Every movement between them is out of sync, every conversation and shared look discordant. Nothing about them fits with the other. They’re just so _different_ in every imaginable way.

Is this really what love looks like?

Harry almost asks them if they’re really sure this is what they want, but manages to bite back the question with the help of a long swig of butterbeer. What does he know of love, compared to them, who’d both been raised steeped in it? Harry’s only knowledge of love comes from what he’s seen between others and the fading residue left behind by a woman’s screaming voice and a flash of green light.

Ginny, Luna, and Neville all arrive at the pub at the same time from different directions. Neville trips trying to sit down, Luna floats into her seat as though she’s weightless, and Ginny slides fluidly into the booth next to Harry with a peck to his cheek. Everyone is so different from one another.

Hermione and Ron accept the group’s congratulations perfunctually before Hermione turns to Luna and asks, “Oh, could Rolf not make it? Busy at work?” in a polite tone that she probably thinks masks her relief. Rolf is too much like Luna for Hermione to be able to tolerate for long stretches of time. There is a true affection between Luna and Hermione born of shared struggles—a warrior bond, maybe—but in the cold light of their day jobs, the two have very little in common. Without that shared history, Rolf and Hermione are growing very near an all-out blood feud.

Luna’s responding smile—like most of Luna’s smiles—is just a little bit off, as though she were participating in the conversation through a long-distance Floo call. “No, he wasn’t busy at all,” she says unashamedly. “He just doesn’t like all the fighting. He wishes the two of you great happiness in your mating bond, though.”

Hermione grimaces at the phrasing, and Ron laughs. “He’s not the only one.” He nudges his new fiancee and earns himself a scowl in response. “Mum nearly cried when we told her, and not with happiness. She wants us to be all calm and sweet like Harry and Ginny.”

Ginny stiffens beside him, and Harry feels his smile freeze up on his face.

“All relationships are different,” says Luna noncommittally. Luna and Rolf are beautiful together. They’re so precisely in sync that it’s like watching a choreographed dance, like striking a perfect chord. “If you two were like Harry and Ginny, you wouldn’t be like you.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Ron peaceably as Hermione rolls her eyes, mouthing _‘Obviously’_.

The conversation moves forward, but neither Harry nor Ginny join it. A suspicion has been rising, poisonous, within him since lunch, and he fears that he has just received confirmation of it.

He leans into Ginny and lifts an arm around her shoulder, companionable rather than romantic. He whispers to her, “So what do you think? Rolf and Luna, or Ron and Hermione?”

“Ron and Hermione,” Ginny whispers back instantly, not even having to think about it. She smiles at him sadly. “And Rolf and Luna, for you.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Ron and Hermione baffle me, honestly.”

Ginny’s lips twitch into a more honest smile for a moment. “They baffle everyone, I suspect. It’s just that some of us enjoy being baffled.” She hesitates, then adds, “Harry… we’ve both been trying, but I don’t think this Luna and Rolf thing is working for me.”

Harry lets his eyes flicker over their laughing friends. George and Angelina have joined the party with a literal bang, and no one seems to have noticed Ginny and Harry’s removal from the conversation other than Luna, who is very carefully not looking at them even as her eyes rotate between every other memory of their group for a calculatedly equal amount of time.

Harry takes another swig of butterbeer. “We’re not really imitating them very well, anyway. They’re both calm people who are calmer together, and we’re both volatile people who cancel one another out. We’re not peaceful together, we’re…”

“Empty,” says Ginny, rueful. She looks at him for a long moment, her familiar face so close to his own. “I remember, sort of, First Year in the Chamber of Secrets. Or maybe I remember being told about it; I’m not sure. I dream about it, sometimes. You, standing there with the Sword of Gryffindor, dead basilisk behind you. You seemed like an adventure, back then.”

“One student’s adventure is another student’s nightmare,” Harry responds dryly.

Ginny shakes her head, slowly. “In my dream, you’re glowing with life, with passion. But you’re not looking at me.”

Harry narrows his eyes at her.

“You’re looking at To—Voldemort. You’re always looking at him.”

“You’d better not be suggesting—”

“No!” Ginny laughs, but Harry isn’t convinced. “No, I’m not suggesting that you’ve been nursing a crush on You Know Who for all this time. But, like you said—we cancel each other out. But you and he didn’t. You didn’t clash, exactly, either. Even when you were fighting, it was like you were moving _together_ , not against one another. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Harry admits grudgingly. He looks away. “It doesn’t really help me understand what I should be looking for, though.”

Ginny nudges him with her shoulder. “I’m not sure any of us know. Not really.” She eyes him for a moment. “I really liked him, you know. Tom.”

Harry glances at her. “So did I.”

Her lips twitch. “I know,” she says, and with that, she returns her attention to their friends, easy as anything.

* * *

“Unless your intent is to explode the entire ministry, Potter, I suggest you do _not_ add the crushed scales to that cauldron. I, of course, do not care either way.”

Harry blinks at the ingredients in his hands and then winces and carefully sets them aside. “I thought they went in next?”

“ _After_ the pixie blood has been fully immersed into the potion, idiot boy.”

“Right. So I just wait, then?” He receives a very unimpressed look for that question. Harry shrugs and sits down at his stool. “You know, I like you a lot more dead than I did when you were alive.”

Snape’s shade sneers at him, and Harry smiles.

He had hidden the Resurrection Stone, as he had promised himself and his friends that he would. And then, after barely a year had passed, he’d hunted it down again, and now it was masked in a plain setting that he wore on a chain around his neck, pressed to his skin.

It seems that he’s more like Cadmus than Ignotus after all. He thinks he might meet the same end, as well, but cautionary tales are only effective when the punishment is worse than the prize, and he fears neither death nor the draw of death. It seems almost romantic to him, to find death early to reunite with loved ones.

He wonders if it was selfish of him, to mourn Sirius with such fury despite his certainty that Sirius was happy to die. He hasn’t been brave enough to ask Sirius for his opinion on the matter, yet.

“Potter, it’s time for the scales.”

Harry shakes his head to clear it. “Right, thanks.” He adds the crushed salamander scales and then stirs to Snape’s direction.

“Good,” says Snape. “Now remove it from the heat and allow it to steep for twelve hours.”

Harry does as he’s told and watches with satisfaction as the potion settles into the exact hue it’s meant to. “Brilliant.” He looks up to the shade of his old professor and smiles crookedly. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Snape looks down his long nose at him. “There’s very little you can do without help, Potter. I am constantly amazed that you are able to walk unassisted.”

Harry mock-scowls at him. “You’re hilarious.” He reaches for the Stone around his neck. “Say ‘hi’ to everyone for me, will you?”

Snape nods, and with a brush of Harry’s magic, his shade returns to its place beyond the Veil.

Harry stretches and yawns, and then he heads out of his make-shift lab, locking the door carefully behind him.

As expected, he barely makes it halfway down the hall before someone calling his name stops him.

He sighs and turns around. “What’s up?” he asks, forcing a smile.

A posse of junior aurors jog up to him. “Finally!” says Junior Auror Jakobs. “Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

Jakobs passes Harry a missive bound by Kingsley’s ministerial seal. “We were responding to a standard domestic disturbance complaint when the situation got a little tense and Auror Burnes ended up being thrown clean through the wall into the neighbouring flat.”

“Sure,” says Harry. “‘Tense.’”

Jakobs grins at him. “Anyway, we’re all panicking, because this other flat is listed as belonging to a muggle, right? But as we’re trying to get the hole in the wall fixed A.S.A.P., what do we notice but a shelf of wizarding books centred on the Dark Arts?”

Harry whistles.

“Right? So the minister wants you in that flat _yesterday_ , basically.” Jakobs juts her chin toward Kingsley’s missive. “Read that and meet me at the Floo?”

Harry agrees and jogs toward his office to grab his things, skimming the note quickly and dismissively. He knows why Kingsley wants him on this without needing to read the note, and indeed it contains no surprises. Harry isn’t an expert on Dark artifacts, curse detection, or curse breaking. He has no business being assigned the head of this investigation at all, but the simple word “Dark” has the power to cause a mass panic, these days, and nothing calms the wizarding public like knowing that Harry Potter is on the case.

Those idiots.

Harry smiles at his coworkers as he passes them in the halls. The advantage of running is that everyone knows that he’s on his way to something important, so no one tries to stop him for conversation. Harry wonders if maybe he should always run everywhere he goes.

He skids to a stop before the Floo and follows Jakobs through, stumbling on the other side as he always does. The other aurors don’t even bother to laugh at him, all focussed on the trove of books and other artifacts they’ve unearthed while the couple whose argument had raised the domestic disturbance complaint watch from the corner, wide-eyed.

Harry walks through the hole in the wall and walks around the mystery flat, trying his best to look sharp and observant. The truth is, he hardly needs to look around at all. The flat is entirely unwarded and uncursed, which doesn’t surprise him, because the flat is also _his_.

His safehouse, his escape from the demands of a world obsessed with their Chosen One. Harry hasn’t been back here in years.

But someone has, because there are signs of habitation, recent habitation. And Harry certainly doesn’t own all those books on—what is that? Necromancy? Charming.

Really, Harry’s the last person who’d need or want to squirrel away Dark Arts books. He has the entire Black library at his disposal, accessible only to him and Kreacher. And anyway, he’s picked up a fair amount of necromancy incidentally, just in fiddling with the Resurrection Stone, but there’s really no need for him to go about hiding illegal books on any topic when he can simply activate the Stone and get his information from a primary source.

He’s not concerned about being linked to the flat or the books—he’d covered his tracks completely by magical standards, and magical folk were absolute rot at tracking muggle paperwork. He’d paid for the flat and his anonymity in cash, anyway.

He is, however, concerned that someone else apparently knows about his hideaway.

He’d never even told Ron and Hermione about this flat. Only one person other than Harry should know about this place.

He looks down at the increasing pile of Dark Arts nonsense and closes his eyes against his growing headache.

* * *

The dead must answer the call of the Resurrection Stone. They are compelled to, regardless of personal wishes.

Harry has called many people to him over the years. People he loved, people he hated, people who hated him. Everyone answers. Everyone must answer.

When the investigation team finally calls it a day, having made great progress in cataloguing their new collection of contraband but no progress at all in tracking it to its source, Harry heads straight home.

As soon as the door shuts and locks behind him, he reaches for the Stone and calls.

Only silence greets him.

Fuck.

He turns his attention to another target and calls again.

“That’s a family heirloom, thief,” a voice says. Harry opens his eyes and the sad visage of Merope Gaunt stares back at him coldly. “You shouldn’t have it. It should be with my son.”

“Your son,” says Harry. “Your son who isn’t dead.”

Merope glares at him and remains stubbornly silent.

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry, Ms Gaunt,” he tries. “It wasn’t my intention to steal anything. I really thought your son—the heir—was dead.”

“He isn’t here.”

Harry nods and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not sure what he’d been hoping to learn from her. “Thank you, Ms Gaunt,” he says, smiling at her before releasing her back to the other plane.

He stares in front of him, unseeing. How exactly is he meant to deal with this?

He enjoys—or at least he feels content in—his quiet, passive existence. It’s been such a relief after the suffering, fighting, madness that had been his status quo for most of the first seventeen years of his life. And now, he feels that gentle, sweet contentment fading away. He feels lost, and confused, and—

And more alive than he’s felt since he was seventeen.

Dammit, Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Tom enters the scene! Update on 29 Sept.


	2. The Lone

“Professor,” says Harry as he ladles the potion carefully into tiny vials. “In your professional opinion, would you say that Voldemort was evil?”

Snape stares at him. The humour of seeing his long, angular face look so gobsmacked isn’t lessened by the fact that he’s a shade, but Harry does his best to focus on the ladling and not burst out laughing.

“Are you well, Potter?”

“Fine, thanks for asking. Just, you know, feeling a little philosophical. Nothing to do with real life or anything.”

“ _Potter_. What have you done?”

“It seems a little rude that you’re just leaping to the assumption that it was me,” says Harry pointedly. “I’ll have you know that I had very little to do with what may or may not have happened.”

Snape stares up at the stone ceiling beseechingly. When no escape proves forthcoming, he returns his scowl to Harry.

“Aurors discovered a whole collection of books on necromancy, and Voldemort just seemed like the sort of bloke a necromancer would target. So I tried to Call him—”

“ _Potter._ ”

“What? Nothing wrong with a little conversation. Anyway, he didn’t come, and then when I called his mum—”

“His _mum_ ,” says Snape disbelievingly.

“Yeah, she said he wasn’t there. You know, in the land beyond the Veil, or what have you.”

Snape presses his fingers to his temples.

“But because of the horcruxes all being destroyed, I wonder if he’ll come back with a full soul this time. So he might be a little less crazy than when I met him. So that’s why I’m asking. When he was more… himself? Was he evil? I know he was a total shit in school and murdered people and got Hagrid expelled, but irredeemably evil?”

Snape sighs. “What is evil? What does it mean to be irredeemable? He was always, in my experience, cruel, for the deeds you mention and many others. I do not know what, if anything, could convince him to be otherwise. But the blind, mass destruction that he is best known for was a more recent development, I believe. One that began sometime near my graduation from Hogwarts.”

“So, assuming he does come back sane and fully souled, he’ll probably be the sort of person I should keep my eye on as an auror, but he probably won’t require a full-scale war?”

Snape’s lips twist into a grimace. “Probably,” he agrees. He hesitates, then adds, grudgingly, “Stay safe, Potter.”

Harry smiles at him. “Thank you.”

When Snape is gone, Harry scourifies the storeroom-come-potions-lab as thoroughly as possible. It’s unlikely that anyone will come in here for months, if ever, but Harry wants to ensure that no trace of him and his activities remains. He carefully stores the cauldron and his ingredients into a tidy potion kit, then shrinks it all and slips it into his pocket along with the stoppered vials.

With one last glance around the storeroom, he slips out into the hall as inconspicuously as possible and experimentally takes his trip down to his office at a trot. No one bothers him beyond a smile and a wave, all assuming he’s in a rush to save the world. It’s brilliant.

In his office, he spends a quiet hour completing paperwork and covertly handling his personal mail—Ginny agrees to dinner tonight, Luna shares a _Quibbler_ special issue with their friends, Ron reminds their friends that they’re due another pub night, Hermione reminds their friends that they’re not to exchange private missives at work—before his peace is broken.

“Potter!” says Burnes, appearing by his open office door. “Good, you’re here early.”

“‘Morning, Burnes,” says Harry, not looking up from the _Quibbler_. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve gone through those Dark artifacts we found yesterday, and you’ll never guess what we think our Dark wizard was planning to do with them.”

Harry bites back the automatic ‘or witch.’ “A resurrection rite?” he asks.

Burnes’s jaw drops open. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Harry tries not to roll his eyes too obviously. “It was a pile of books on necromancy, Burnes. One of the books was actually titled _Raising the Dead_. Not much of a leap of logic, is it?”

Burnes looks at him, awed and amazed, and Harry feels instinctively embarrassed on behalf of the entire investigative team.

Harry prompts, “But I imagine you have more details on the specific rite our MUTANT was attempting?”

Harry vaguely remembers overhearing the Dursleys watching programmes on the telly where the inspectors would refer to their unknown criminals as ‘unsubs.’ The magical world, as always, comes instead with one of its absurdly long acronyms: Mysterious Undesirable Targets and Noxious Truants, or MUTANT. Harry once tried to make an X-Men joke, but even Hermione had stared at him blankly, so he let it go regretfully.

Burnes says, “Yes, well, we’ve got it narrowed to fifty possibilities,” and Harry tries not to wince.

“Excellent,” he says weakly, and Burnes glows with pride.

There’s a moment of silence before Harry asks, “Did you want me to do something?”

“Yes, right! Could you come and see? We’re not sure where to take the investigation next.”

Harry closes the _Quibbler_ and gestures for Burnes to lead the way.

Harry is a senior auror at 23, and he shouldn’t be, but Burnes and his cohort of junior aurors are only 18. They should still be in training, and it shows.

“Here’s the list of possible rites that we’ve compiled,” says Burnes when they arrive at the Storeroom 5, which they’ve taken over for the investigation. He passes Harry a roll of parchment covered in a messy scrawl that Harry has to squint to read. “And over here is our catalogue of all the rites listed in the books, and over here is our list of all the ingredients and artifacts we found at the flat, including the archive numbers we assigned them. And then here on these shelves are the books and ingredients and artifacts themselves.”

Harry sees Barnes’s arms waving around out of the corner of his eye as Burnes gestures around the room, but he continues reading through the list of rites, frowning.

“This one,” says Harry, tapping the parchment. He ignores the junior aurors as they crowd around him to look. “The Rite of Anubis. Doesn’t that need a pyramid and a mummy?”

Peters hurries over to the centre table to refer to yet another list. “Er, yes,” she says after a moment.

Harry glances around the room, but none of the aurors seem to see a problem with this. “Was there any sign of a pyramid or a mummy in the flat? Any sign of access to one? Even any sign of any interest in Egypt?”

Burnes hesitates. “...No?” he answers uncertainly.

Harry stares at him. “...Right,” he says. “So we can probably cross that one off the list, don’t you think?”

“But, Potter,” says Everett. “There’s no evidence that it _wasn’t_ that rite, is there?”

Harry closes his eyes. It’s too early in the day for this bad of a headache. “Right you are, Everett,” says Harry. “Why don’t you keep this list as a reference of _possible_ rites our MUTANT was planning, and now start on a new list ranking these rites in terms of _feasibility_ and _likelihood_.” He sees Burnes’s mouth open and cuts off that train of questioning before it can begin. “By ‘likelihood,’ I mean how easy it would be for a magical being living in England and in possession of the artifacts we confiscated to complete the rite. For example, any rite that can be completed using _only_ the confiscated materials should go at the top of this new list. Does that make sense?”

At the general hum of agreement, Harry congratulates the junior aurors on their hard work and escapes back to his office.

_Kingsley_ , Harry scribbles onto an office memo. _Can I quit, please?_

A response comes fluttering back to Harry before he’s even managed to find where he’d left off in the _Quibbler_.

_No_ , the reply reads in Kingsley’s bold, clear writing. _Not until the youngest senior auror is 40._

_That’ll take ages!_ Harry writes back, scowling.

_Yes. We’ll discuss this again in 17 years, Potter._

Harry frowns. Bermann is 28, Falvry is 30, and Mallory is 39. Unless…

Harry grabs his memo pad again. _Are you counting me? That’s not fair!_

Kingsley doesn’t reply, so he probably agrees and doesn’t care.

To be fair, Bermann, Falvry, and Mallory are only slightly more helpful than the junior aurors they oversee. Sometimes, Harry wonders if the whole reason the DMLE has gone so long without a formal head is Kingsley’s fear of being forced to hand the job over to Mallory on the basis of seniority. Even though Harry is by far the youngest of the senior aurors, the other three defer to him with almost embarrassing regularity.

Harry lets his head hit the desk with a thump. Ron, Patil, Greengrass, and Nott are all full aurors in line for promotion to senior. As long as they pass the exam (a breeze) and meet the requirements for the performance review (what’s taking them so long to hit the required caseload, anyway?), soon he should have someone else on hand to help him babysit.

As it is, full-time training and oversight duty was only fun up until he realised exactly how much oversight the junior aurors actually need, never mind the trainees. He’s been putting off his performance evaluations in the hopes that the juniors will provide him with something positive to write down other than the damningly faint praise of “diligent worker.”

Harry looks up at a knock on his open door. Jakobs has stuck her head in. “Potter? I just ran into Everett, and he wanted to ask you if a rite requiring an 81-member coven counts as ‘feasible.’”

Harry closes his eyes. “What did you tell him?” he asks, trying to keep his voice as non-judgemental as possible.

Jakobs grins at him. “I said, ‘Not unless the rite involves a _Witch Weekly_ sponsored book signing.’ Only, then he nodded all thoughtfully and wrote that down. I’m not sure that team is getting enough sunlight.”

Harry rubs his eyes, nearly knocking off his glasses in the process. “What’re you working on, again?”

“I’m the first line of defense against loud noises and suspiciously malingering school children,” says Jakobs grandiosely. “Protection that elderly witches and their cats can truly rely on. I think I’ve gained an entire stone in teacakes.”

Harry snorts and digs through his desk until he finds the form he’s looking for. “Not anymore. Now you’re heading the Dark Muggle Flat investigation. Take the team out for lunch on a patio or something.”

“Will do, boss,” says Jakobs. “Though they might not need any. When I ran into Everett, he was on his way back up from the main lobby picking up a bagged lunch. His sister had just come all the way to the ministry to hand-deliver it to him. I think she said ‘hi’ to the whole team.” Her tone isn’t nearly as mocking as her words might imply, but Harry gives her a stern frown anyway. She salutes, grinning as she takes her copy of the assignment and heads out the door.

Harry exhales slowly and looks down at his desk sorrowfully. Now he wants teacakes.

* * *

Harry levitates the final washed and dried plate back into the cabinet and turns to Ginny with a smile. “See? We can do the after-dating friend thing. Dinner wasn’t too awkward, was it?”

It’s only one week after the pub celebration, and a week and a half after their last dinner together. Harry can’t remember the last time he and Ginny saw one another so frequently.

Ginny laughs at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. There isn’t much light in the kitchen, and in the dark, her hair seems to flow like dripping blood.

“Quiet, candlelit dinners with just the two of us will be a lot _more_ awkward once we’ve come clean about the breakup. Imagine how irritating it will be to explain that we’re not getting back together again.”

Her smile is inviting—inviting him to share the joke, inviting him to laugh with her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms casually. “I think they’ll get the message pretty clearly when you introduce them to your new boyfriend. Tom, is it?”

He’s almost certain, but not quite. When her eyes widen comically, he mentally pats himself on the back.

“How did you hear about that? I haven’t told anyone about him!”

Harry wags his eyebrows at her. “I have my ways,” he says, trying to seem just this side of Abused My Power as an Auror to Stalk You. The wizarding world has strange priorities, and stalking comes off better than speaking to the dead, unfortunately. Though it seems increasingly likely that Ginny’s priorities are differently aligned.

Ginny frowns at him teasingly. “Way to go, Mr Creepy,” she says, smiling. “Yes, I do have a new _friend_. Tom—Thomas Mort. He’s just back in England. His family moved away to the Continent to escape the war.”

_Thomas Mort_? Seriously? Couldn’t they do better than that?

“And when do we get to meet this Mr Mort?” asks Harry. He’s slightly surprised at how much he’s enjoying himself in this role of big brother, even given the twin pink elephants of necromancy and _Dark Lords_ casting their shadows.

“Oh, he’s still settling in,” says Ginny, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “And really, Harry, we’re not at all _like that_ , so introducing him to the clan would be absurd.” She grins suddenly and looks down at him. “He’s terribly handsome, so the fam would be making assumptions whether they knew about you and me or not.”

Harry feels himself flush, and he’s not entirely certain why. Ginny smirks at him, and he clears his throat. “Is he? Well, you should at least introduce him to us, then. I’d like to meet him, be he my replacement or my new friend.”

“Oh, trust me, Harry,” says Ginny, her smile strange. “It never crossed my mind to keep you two away from one another.”

Harry looks away, swallowing. “Lovely,” he says in a strained voice. He doesn’t realise he’s made a decision until he hears himself say, “Listen, Ginny—”

She stands there looking at him, beautiful and familiar down to the last freckle.

He can trust her. He _knows_ he can trust her.

“I don’t want to tell you how to spend your free time,” he says. “But the Auror Department’s a bit of a madhouse right now. Yesterday, some muggle flat was discovered to be hiding a treasure trove of Dark Arts nonsense. From what I could see it was rather soft; if that new recategorisation bill passes in the Wizengamot, it might not even be illegal. But no one knows who it belongs to, where it came from, or why it was there. So you and your new friend might want to be careful out there.”

Ginny is frozen and pale. She nods her head very slowly. “They have no leads at all?” she asks delicately.

Harry meets her gaze. “None,” he promises.

“How alarming,” she says. “I’ll let Tom know to be careful.”

“Brilliant,” says Harry tonelessly.

They’re silent as Harry leads Ginny to the door and wraps her cloak around her. He opens the door for her, and then he can’t bear it any longer.

“Ginny,” he says, voice pleading. “‘Mort’? Really? _Really_?”

She leaves Grimmauld Place laughing.

* * *

“I just feel,” says Harry, waving around his cheese knife, “that I’ve already, you know, paid my dues and served my sentence. Do I really need to stand up and do it all over again? Am I morally obligated to?”

Lily smiles at him reassuringly, but her eyes are worried as she flickers her gaze over to James. 

Remus raises his eyebrows. “I suppose that depends on how invested you are in the final outcome.”

“You mean that I have no right to complain about the state of the world if I don’t do anything to save it or fix it.” The kettle whistles, and Harry waves his hand to turn off the burner and pour the water into the waiting teapot. “Fine, I guess, but I feel as though I’m the one pulling all the weight here. Can’t someone else be the saviour of magical Britain for once?”

“Would you be happier, leaving the job to someone else?” asks James, rubbing Lily’s back soothingly. “Would you be able to relax, not knowing if they’re doing it right?”

Harry bites his lip, unsure of his response.

Lily says abruptly, “What if it does turn out that he isn’t the same after all?” She looks at Harry through his own eyes. “You’ve been wondering who he’ll turn out to be, now that he may have been returned with a complete soul. You’re asking us what to do, what you’ll be expected to do, if he begins a new war. But what if he doesn’t? Will you be able to live with him as he is, knowing what he was? What he did?”

Harry can’t bear the intensity of her stare, and he looks away. “I—” he begins.

“Master had best not be being in the kitchen!” shrieks Kreacher, and Harry quickly waves his family away before he’s caught talking at thin air.

“We said I’m allowed to make myself breakfast, remember?” Harry yells back as the old elf hobbles into the room, glaring at him.

“Master is be making breakfast _only_ when Master is not be making dinner,” says Kreacher coldly, and with a snap of his fingers, the cheese knife vanishes from Harry’s hand and reappears in Kreacher’s. Kreacher inspects Harry’s early start on breakfast and sniffs in disdain. “Master will wait in the breakfast room,” Kreacher commands firmly. “And Kreacher will bring Master his breakfast and”—Kreacher peers at the little teapot and sneers—“his tea.”

“Thanks, Kreacher,” says Harry meekly, and he shuffles out of the room obediently.

Harry sits at the breakfast table in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and thinks about how deeply and unbendingly he’d despised Kreacher after Sirius died. Voldemort’s scheme would not have succeeded without Kreacher’s assistance, and then Sirius would have lived at least a little longer with Harry. Time and understanding lent him and Kreacher the strength for mutual forgiveness.

How far could Harry’s forgiveness extend?

How far _should_ Harry’s forgiveness extend?

* * *

Jakobs’s usually amiable face is stiff and cold when she meets Harry at his office just as he’s getting in to work. The rest of the team is standing behind her, white with fear.

“Jakobs,” says Harry, watching her carefully. He makes a show of shrugging off his cloak as he shoulders open the door to his office. “Peters, Everett, Burnes. Come on in.”

Jakobs waits until the door has been securely closed behind them before she speaks. “Storeroom 5—the storeroom our team was using—was broken into last night,” she says quietly. “The books, the ingredients, the artifacts—all cleared out.”

Harry goes still.

“Cleared out,” he repeats quietly, and the group of juniors flinch.

“Yes, sir,” says Jakobs, standing at attention. It was an eerie sight, given the usual informality of the Auror Department.

Harry sits down at his desk slowly and leans back in his chair. “How was the room secured?”

“The contraband was sealed up into Priority 1 lockboxes, and the room itself was sealed with a level-three containment charm. I can personally confirm that the spells on the lockboxes and the storeroom were active when I left last night. I’m willing to provide my memories.”

Harry drums his fingers against the arm of his chair. “That won’t be necessary, Jakobs, but thank you.”

Jakobs clears her throat, relaxing slightly. “Sir, I take full responsibility for not properly ensuring the protection of the evidence.”

“Priority 1 lockboxes were already overkill,” says Harry drily. “Never mind the containment charm on the room. A bunch of old books, some minor Dark artifacts, that might not even be classified as Dark in less than an hour, and a mini potions lab? None of it struck me as particularly rare. Do you disagree?”

Peters says, “The books could be rare, maybe, but everything else was middling-rare at most. Most of the potions ingredients were actually fairly common.”

“So who or what,” asks Harry, “would go through the effort of breaking into the Ministry, then breaking a level-three containment field, and _then_ go through the extremely finicky and irritating process of cutting through the charms on those bloody lockboxes, all for a pile of relative junk? And, most importantly, _why_?”

Everett and Burnes both open their mouths, but Harry waves them silent again. “No, don’t answer that. Think about it. Gather up whatever’s left of your investigation notes, if anything, and report to Briefing Room Three.”

The juniors stare at him in surprise. “Potter?” asks Jakobs uncertainly.

“We’re opening this case up,” says Harry. “I’m calling everyone in.”

Before he heads to the briefing room himself, Harry makes a few stops: first, to the breached Storeroom 5, then to speak with the other senior aurors when what he finds there isn’t quite what he expects.

_Finally_ , he finds himself thinking to himself. _Something fun to look into._

* * *

“Necromancy?” repeats Greengrass dubiously. 

Something like thirty-five aurors are squeezed in around an absurdly long conference table with Harry slouched casually at its head. The recitation of the facts of the case has been rather dull; Harry has occupied himself with tapping his wand against the underside of the wooden conference table and idly watching the reactions.

The junior aurors, when not required to speak, are sunken down into their chairs, looking terrified. The three other senior aurors are staring blankly down at the table in front of them, as pale and wan as they have been since Harry pulled them aside to brief them on his plans for this investigation. The promotion-track full aurors, meanwhile, are bright with alertness and curiosity, and it is they who dominant the conversation.

“But what would be the point?” Greengrass continues.

“Oh, _please_ ,” snaps Ron. “Isn’t that obvious? One of your Death Eater friends is looking to bring your old master back.”

Greengrass pales in fury. “Watch your tongue, Weasley, or be prepared to lose it.”

“Who else would go through all this trouble?” Ron continues, heedless. “We should make a run at the usual suspects.”

“If the ‘usual suspects’ were interested in any of the contraband listed here, they wouldn’t need to steal it,” says Patil, entirely unmoved. “They’d just tell their House Elf to go fetch it from the family vaults. None of this is worth stealing; not for the effort involved, anyway.”

A memo zips into the room and Harry snatches it out of the air. He waves at the aurors to continue their discussion, and he opens the note.

_Fine,_ Kingsley wrote. _Keep me apprised._ And then, in a different ink: _The Dark Arts Reclassification Bill just passed._

Ron leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “All the better to go after them, then, if their vaults are loaded up with _Dark Artifacts_! And if they are innocent, it’s in their best interests to cooperate with us, anyway.” 

“And how is that?” Nott looks at Ron, sneering. “They know they’ll always be the aurors’ first suspects in anything no matter what they do. Why should they cooperate?”

“I agree,” says Harry. The entire table goes silent. It’s ridiculous; there are three aurors in the room who technically outrank him, based on their seniority. But everyone simply accepts that whatever he says goes.

“Who with?” asks Ron, frowning.

“All of you,” Harry replies easily. “If a Death Eater stole these items, I doubt it’s one we know about.” Seeing Ron stiffening out of the corner of his eye, Harry cuts off his argument before it can begin. “We’ll still make the rounds, though.”

Greengrass and Nott look furious but unsurprised, so Harry nods at them. “And we’ll make it worth their while. Full immunity for any inactive class-three or lower Dark items we come across during our searches in exchange for their cooperation, and immunity and non-seizure for any items we find that meet the new classification criteria. And we’ll make sure all the papers know how helpful and innocent they all are. That should keep everyone happy.”

Everyone is staring at him now, jaws dropped open.

“ _Harry_ ,” pleads Ron. “This is an opportunity to clean up! We could do some real good!”

“‘Do some real good,’” repeats Harry incredulously, “by snatching up a bunch of dusty family heirlooms, half of which were only classified as Dark on a whim? Let’s worry more about the _active harm_ some MUTANT might be attempting out there and less about lost knickknacks that are rotting away in Malfoy’s cupboards.”

“And if the ‘lost knickknacks’ in those cupboards are little kids?” snarls Ron, ignoring the bewildered glances that comment earns him. “What then?”

Harry gives Ron his blandest face. “Then we get the kids out and burn the manor to the bloody ground,” he answers coldly.

Ron leans back, satisfied, and the aurors sit in bemused silence for a long moment.

“Now,” says Harry, nodding at Jakobs and her team. “Tell us what rituals you think were most likely to have been our MUTANT’s gameplan.”

Peters clears her throat nervously. “While there remain a large number of rites that could possibly have been intended by the MUTANT, the ingredients and artifacts found that the site would have been sufficient to complete three rites: The Third Circle, the Returning Reign, and the Red Pheasant.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up.

“‘The Red Pheasant,’” asks Ron, sniggering. “Seriously?”

“What do they do? How are they conducted?” asks Patil.

Peters’s face goes red. Jakobs places a comforting hand on her shoulder and answers, “The notes on the rituals were all stolen along with the books. All we have left are the annotated lists the team made for archival purposes. We know those rituals make use of the confiscated items in some combination or other, but we don’t have any information on what they’re for.”

“Do you know, Potter?” asks Burnes hopefully.

Ron rolls his eyes, and Nott sneers.

Unfortunately, Burnes chooses this moment to suddenly become observant, because he notices their reactions and slouches down in his chair, flushing. “You knew a lot about the Anubis one, so I just thought you might recognise these, too.”

“‘The Anubis one,’” repeats Ron, grinning over at Harry.

Harry doesn’t grin back.

“I’ve heard of them, anyway,” he says mildly. “The Returning Reign is technically a summoning and possession ritual, I believe. It’s still used by Healers in some communities to revive coma patients. The Red Pheasant is an old healing ritual, too; it’s very power exhaustive, but with enough fuel, it can repair almost any physical damage on a body.” Or even build a new body from scratch. “The Third Circle is the only one of those three that’s really traditional necromancy, but I don’t think we have to worry about that one. I seem to remember it requiring really specific astrological conditions, the sort that only come around every century or so.”

“Well, once a century could be right now,” says Greengrass. “Do you remember what those conditions were?”

Harry gives her a wry smile. “Good point. No, I don’t. We’ll need to do some digging.”

“That one was in _Raising the Dead_ ,” says Burnes helpfully. “I remember because you pointed out that title specifically.”

_I’m going to run you through a meat-grinder_ , thinks Harry, but he’s careful to keep his feelings under wraps and only hums absently.

“How do you even know this?” asks Ron, staring at him.

“I killed Voldemort four times, was present for three of his resurrection attempts, and I’ve been hit with the Killing Curse twice,” says Harry, ignoring the wide eyes those statements earn him. “You think that didn’t spur an interest in life and death?”

Ron frowns. “I guess…”

“I find it interesting that two of the three likeliest rituals are relatively benign,” says Greengrass. “And are arguably healing rituals rather than necromancy.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s not really that surprising. All healing magic is rooted in necromancy. And neither of the two are illegal, strictly speaking.”

Again with the staring.

“Jakobs, Peters, Everett, and Burnes,” says Harry. “Distribute copies of your lists. Aurors, take your lists door-to-Former-Death-Eater-door, as we discussed earlier. Remember, they aren’t to be treated as suspects, but as possible sources of much-needed information. And if anyone _does_ have any Dark items that match the descriptions of our missing contraband, request— _politely_ —that we be permitted to borrow them for study, especially the books. There’s some connection we’re missing, something that makes these items important enough to steal, and I want to know what it is. I doubt it’s any of those ingredients or artifacts, common as they are, so focus on the books.”

Greengrass speaks up. “In the interests of the investigation,” she says delicately. “It’s possible that I may have one of the books on that list, or something similar.”

Harry nods. “I reckon I have one or two, too. I’ll look, but the Black family library is a disaster zone. We may very well reclaim the stolen contraband before I’m able to find anything useful in there.”

“You keep Dark Arts books?” Ron yelps, horrified.

Harry can’t help but grind his teeth. He’s so through with this conversation. “Ron,” he says. “I live in the Most Ancient and Noble house of Black. Despite Sirius’s best efforts to discard everything Dark, gross, or just ugly that he could find, I still trip over cursed items nearly every week. Yesterday a lamp nearly took my arm off.”

Greengrass looks fascinated.

Ron, on the other hand, looks like he wants to throw up. “Why don’t you just move out?”

Harry stands and gestures for the other aurors to get moving. “Because I love it.”

It isn’t until he says it out loud that he knows for certain that it’s true.

Ron and Hermione had told him that they’d be bored if they always got along with one another. But for Harry, for whom emotions remain terrifying and huge things that he doesn’t quite understand, he’d much rather have his friendships and family be completely agreeable and supportive, and all the dangers he faces be physical. 

And facing physical danger is _fun_ when it’s not a constant threat of world destruction hanging over his head. Facing physical danger in small, controlled bursts is why he stays on this side of the Veil when so much of what he wants waits for him on the other side.

He sighs. He thinks he finally knows the answers to his dad and mum’s questions that morning. And he’s not sure he likes them.

* * *

Harry can do this. It’s no big deal. Obviously he can do this. He’s done way more frightening things before.

He faces the door to the friendly cottage.

He knocks.

“Coming!” calls Ginny from inside.

Harry stuffs in hands into his pockets to stop them from fidgeting.

“Harry!” says Ginny, surprised and not entirely welcoming. “Did you want to head down to the pub together? Let me change into different robes.” She vanishes back into the cottage, calling back over her shoulder pointedly, “You should have sent an owl!”

Despite the lack of invitation, Harry eases himself inside. “I mean, we can head down together, though it’s a bit early, yet. No, I wanted to talk to you about that… thing. That we talked about. The investigation thing.”

Ginny’s head pops back out from around the doorway that he knows leads to her bedroom as he closes the outside door carefully behind him. “The investigation thing? With the mysterious Dark Arts collection in the muggle flat?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “See, the entire collection was stolen from the ministry last night.”

Ginny’s eyes widen in convincing shock, but they narrow quickly enough in suspicion. “And you came to me because…?”

“Because I don’t think it was you, but I need to make sure. And because I want to know what in there was valuable enough that it prompted someone to break a really absurd number of protection charms to get at it when, to my knowledge, a quick dash into Knockturn Alley should turn up basically the same sort of stock.”

Ginny worries at her bottom lip, but she isn’t the one who answers.

“You’re largely correct,” says a familiar, smooth voice from behind Harry. Harry forces himself to turn slowly and casually, even though his instinct has him wanting to whirl around, wand in the air. “Most of our materials were common enough. We were very careful in selecting the rituals we needed. We didn’t both feel comfortable crossing certain… boundaries, shall we say.”

Tom Marvolo Riddle is leaning against the open kitchen door, looking comfortable and gorgeous and very, very alive.

Harry has to remind himself, repeatedly, that he’s already made the decision to trust Ginny on this.

For now.

“Mr Mort,” greets Harry when he thinks he’s got his voice under control. It still comes out a bit scratchy, and it makes Tom smile a little in a sweet, teasing sort of way, like they’re the best of friends sharing a joke. Harry’s stomach twists violently at the sight. “I want to congratulate you on your caution and respect for the law. Though your naming ability leaves something to be desired, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Maybe I was hoping it would just be temporary,” says Tom, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I rather like the sound of ‘Tom Potter,’ actually. Now, I wonder how I could convince you to share your name with me?” His dark eyes flicker over Harry’s body lazily, and Harry shivers, face bright red.

“Ginny!” he tattles. “Your boyfriend is flirting with me!”

“Still not my boyfriend!” she calls back as she returns to the room, her hair tidied, her face freshly made up, and her work clothes having been changed for a lovely set of lilac robes that make her skin glow. Harry tries very hard to focus his desire on her. More embarrassing than his failure to do so is how obvious both the attempt and the failure are to his companions, if he takes their matching smirks as hints. “I’m ready now. Are you coming along, Tom?”

“Mightn’t someone recognise you?” asks Harry desperately. “Seems a bit dangerous to go walking about looking like… you.”

Ginny breaks down laughing, but Tom contents himself with a quick grin before he considers Harry’s question seriously.

“There are no photos or paintings of Tom Riddle,” he says. “I’ve—we’ve—made certain of that. And there are very few people living who have cause to remember this face and connect it to Lord Voldemort. Hagrid lives in France, now. McGonagall rarely leaves Scotland. And while Horace flits from manor to mansion somewhat unpredictably, I don’t expect him to join you at your pub night.”

“But if someone takes a photo for a paper and one of them sees it…”

Tom raises his eyebrows sardonically. “Voldemort was finally fully destroyed, remember? And even if he hadn’t been, he looked nothing like this by the time he died, nor would he have even without the experimental Dark Arts, not at his age. A strong resemblance to a student they knew sixty years ago is explainable in many more parsimonious ways than necromancy.”

“I suppose…”

“Tom,” Ginny breaks in. “Pub. Yes or no?”

Tom lets his eyes settle on Harry, the expression in them thoughtful. “Yes,” he says finally.

Harry flushes again and looks away.

“Brilliant!” says Ginny. “I can’t wait to see how Hermione reacts to you, and then how Ron reacts to Hermione’s reaction to you. Fireworks guaranteed!”

They’re out the door and waiting for Ginny to lock up so they can apparate away together when Harry remembers. “Wait, the books! You mentioned that only most of them were common. Which one wasn’t? What was worth stealing?”

Tom is suddenly standing very close, a long finger pressing itself lightly to Harry’s lips. The soft pressure makes them tingle. “Not out here, love,” Tom breathes into Harry’s ear. “We’ll talk later. Perhaps you’ll invite us in for drinks?”

“Drinks after drinks?” asks Harry against Tom’s finger, trying to sound unimpressed rather than like he’s approximately thirty seconds from either fainting or exploding due to sensory overload.

Tom’s eyes darken, and he slides his finger away to cup his whole hand around the side of Harry’s face. “I suppose it doesn’t need to be for drinks,” he purrs.

Just as Harry’s knees are about to give up the fight, Ginny snaps, “Boys! Pub!” and yanks them apart. “Honestly,” she grumbles, arranging them on either side of her, so that her arms are looped through theirs. “Right on my front porch. And Tom, you’ll have to take this slower, give Harry time to adjust. You know how he is. We dated him long enough.”

Harry chokes.

“Shall we?” asks Ginny brightly, and she apparates them all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: 6 Oct
> 
> _A punctuation note:_ I know that common usage has increasingly involved possessive apostrophes to be based simply on the presence of a final S rather than the plural/singular function of that S. Here, I'm going with the more traditional plural/singular usage. This means that if I have names like James and Burnes, I will make them possessive using the singular possessive form (James's) rather than using the plural possessive (James'). I'm sorry if that irritates anyone. I'm also sorry if no one cared until they read this pedantic note, and now everyone is irritated.
> 
> _A style note:_ These chapters should get more dialogue-heavy as they move forward. The idea is that as Harry becomes more and more focussed on the here-and-now, the writing is supposed to become less dense and more upbeat. With any luck, I was at least somewhat successful at this.


	3. The Unforgotten

Harry’s not sure what sort of picture they make as they walk into the pub on either side of Ginny like a pair of escorts, but the effect is enough to cause a collective jaw drop as Ginny pulls them up to the table that Ron, Hermione, and a few other have already staked out.

“Ginny?” asks Ron severely. “Who’s your new… friend?” He nods his head at Tom, but his eyes are on Harry, as though Harry might not have noticed that on the other side of his supposed girlfriend stands a rival who is completely out of Harry’s Quidditch league.

“Thomas Mort,” says Tom, smiling and extending a hand for a round of shakes. “Please, call me Tom. I hope I’m not in the way. Ginevra knows that I’ve been at loose ends since landing in Britain, and she was kind enough to invite me along.”

There is really no way to respond to a statement like that other than polite, welcoming greetings, though Ron looks sour, Hermione suspicious, and everyone else curious.

Tom ends up squeezed in by Rolf and Luna, who both give him vague smiles.

“You’re really very beautiful,” says Luna, blinking her huge eyes at Tom. “Could you be part thestral? What do you think, Rolf?”

Hermione looks ready to brain herself on the table, which isn’t much of a surprise, given that she’s seated on Luna’s other side. Her drink is already much lower than it usually is at the beginning of an evening out, and Harry winces internally.

“Merlin,” breathes Rolf. “What an incredible idea!”

Tom clears his throat. “I’m not really sure how to take that,” he says.

“You don’t take it,” says Hermione. “You really, really don’t.” She takes a gulp of her drink. “So how did you meet Ginny, Tom?”

“We’ve been corresponding for work over a number of years,” says Tom, effortlessly displaying his phenomenal lying ability. “But it is wonderful to finally meet in person. And, of course, to have the opportunity to meet Ginevra’s wonderful friends, about whom I’ve heard so much.” His eyes swivel to Harry, and the heat in them makes Harry’s whole face turn red.

Hermione stares at Harry incredulously.

“I’ll go grab us some drinks, shall I?” Harry jumps up from the booth. “Any requests?”

Most of the table seems to have just gotten their drinks, and Hermione wisely seems to be holding off on her next, so they shake their heads, their eyes a little wide as they look back and forth among the newcomers.

“Whatever you’re having,” says Tom, and Harry carefully does not look at him as he nods in agreement.

“Firewhiskey, neat,” says Ginny. “Are you sure, Tom? I’m sure I’ve mentioned, but Harry always goes for butterbeer.”

Tom shrugs easily. “I like sweet things,” is all he says, and Harry feels his eyes burning into his back all the way up to the bar.

_Empty mind, calm heart_ , Harry tries to tell himself as he waits for their drinks, but as improved as his occlumency is, he doubts it’s up to blocking Tom’s legilimency.

The party has expanded again when he returns with the drinks. “Oh, shall I get you something while I’m up?” asks Harry, sliding a butterbeer and a firewhiskey over to Tom and Ginny.

“Oh, no, don’t be silly,” says Ginny, grinning. “You’ll spend the whole night at the bar at this rate. Why don’t I grab the next round, and you can shove in by Tom?”

Screw occlumency. Harry _wants_ Ginny to read his mind so that she knows how awful he thinks she is.

“Nonsense, we’ll get our own drinks,” says Angelina. She turns to George. “And by ‘we,’ I really mean ‘you.’”

George makes a face, but he obligingly stands.

Seeing no other option, Harry sits.

Hermione and Tom are in an enthusiastic debate over which spells are affected by the reclassification guidelines just passed. Seeing that Rolf is looking twitchy at being stuck between them, Harry leans over across Ginny. “Did you decide about the likelihood of thestral ancestry?” he asks, nodding his head at Tom.

Tom hears him, of course, but he’s too embroiled in his argument to be able to spare Harry more than a quick roll of his eyes.

“Probably not very likely, I’m afraid,” says Rolf sadly. “Which does make the resemblance all the more startling.”

Tom’s eyes flash, and Harry grins. “Yes, I see what you mean,” he says sweetly, just to watch Tom twitch.

Luna blinks at him languidly. “Do you really, Harry?”

Harry pushes off his first instinct, which is to dismiss her question off-hand for its obvious absurdity. Luna rarely has any interest in the obvious. Instead, Harry thinks of the encounters he’s had with thestrals, and he gets stuck on the memory of visiting the Hogwarts herd in the Forbidden Forest with Luna all those years ago. The memory carries with it a strange, weighty peace, one that he didn’t recognise properly until he held the Resurrection Stone in his hand. The thestrals looked at him with eyes that saw both sides of the Veil.

Harry studies Tom for a moment. “Yes,” he says again. “Yeah, I do see it.”

Luna and Rolf both smile at him, and Tom pauses his debate long enough to frown at Harry.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” says Ginny. “You, out.” She gives Harry a little shove. “We’re reordering ourselves.”

When they slide back into place, Tom is seated by Hermione, Harry is seated by Tom, and Luna and Rolf are lined up on Harry’s other side. Ginny has swung around to the other side of the horse-shoe booth to join Ron, Neville, George, and Angelina. She smirks at Harry when she catches his scowl.

Harry turns back to Luna and Rolf, trying to ignore the way his entire right-hand side is burning against Tom. “I don’t think I thanked you for that special issue of the _Quibbler_ , Luna. I haven’t finished it, yet, but it’s rather brilliant. Do you really think Horned Fillibrights are the reason our mooncalf farms are failing?”

Harry is aware that for most of their friends, the _Quibbler_ flows seamlessly from Luna’s owl to the rubbish bin. Harry always makes a point to read every issue, though, and he alone of their friends is a subscriber. At first, he did this out of loyalty to Luna and gratitude to the _Quibbler_ for its willingness to publish his own stories undoctored. Eventually, he began to find genuine enjoyment in reading the magazine, absurd and light-hearted as it was. And then one day, viewing the world through potion-tinted spectacles, he realised that a common class-three Headache Hex, when made visible, looks very nearly identical to illustrations of the Woolly Mandicurst, a magical, hair-pulling creature that, as far as most magizoologists are concerned, exists only in the pages of the _Quibbler_ and other conspiracy tabloids.

And so, years after he’d come to know and love Luna, it finally occurred to him to wonder exactly what her vague, unfocussed eyes can see, and how many of her insane-sounding speculations are due to translation errors.

“Oh, yes,” says Rolf, his eyes bright. “We’re quite sure.”

Luna adds, “They’re all over the pastures. Rolf needs a special potion to see them, though.”

“I’ll bet he does,” mutters Hermione into her drink. Her argument with Tom faded in the reshuffle.

“I do, too,” Harry confesses with a smile. “I use Snorrisson’s Hyggja At formula.”

Hermione and Tom stare at him in surprise.

Rolf is nearly vibrating with excitement. “I’ve heard of that, but I haven’t been able to get my hands on it. It’s supposed to be very finicky to brew.”

“It is a bit,” says Harry. “What do you use?”

“Iriran Oje, mostly,” says Rolf. “It works splendidly, but since it’s taken orally, it’s easy to build up a resistance to it. Not like the Hyggja At, which is applied to an external receptacle. Your glasses?”

“Yeah. So what exactly are the Horned Fillibrights doing to the soil that’s affecting the mooncalves so badly?”

Luna and Rolf’s gentle enthusiasm as they describe their work does a great deal to calm Harry’s high-strung nerves, and he finds himself relaxing back into Tom. When Harry isn’t focussed on the alarming knowledge that _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ is alive and well beside him, Tom’s presence is soothing and familiar, as though Harry has leaned into him hundreds of times before.

Harry frowns when he reaches for his butterbeer and realises that it’s somehow already empty. Tom huffs a laugh and switches Harry’s empty pint with his half-full one. “No need to pout, love,” he says into Harry’s ear, sotto voce.

When Harry looks over to thank him, he catches sight of Hermione’s raised eyebrows and winces.

That’s not a conversation he’s looking forward to having any time soon.

He takes a sip of Tom’s butterbeer meekly and tries to avoid meeting Hermione’s eyes as he turns back to Luna and Rolf.

Luna smiles. “It’s nice to see you two back together again.”

Harry tries not to think too hard about what she might mean by that.

* * *

“Okay,” says Harry, closing the door to Grimmauld Place and turning to Tom and Ginny. “ _Now_ will you tell me about those books?”

“Aren’t we allowed to sit down?” asks Tom.

“Maybe not. It’s past Kreacher’s hours, so there’s no one around to force me to be decent.” Nevertheless, Harry leads them to the sitting room and waves at them to sit.

Ginny laughs. “Oh, we don’t mind a little indecency, do we, Tom?”

Tom smirks, but at Harry’s scowl, he sighs and says, “Straight to business, are we? Very well.”

“I’ve been waiting _all night_ ,” snaps Harry. “How is that ‘straight to business’?”

Tom ignores him. “One piece of the collection we’d amassed is a very rare edition of an otherwise mundane necromancy manual. The original of _Raising the Dead_ has been tragically lost to time. What instead fills the shelves of our less-than-scrupulous bookstores is a translation of a translation of a translation, and so on. As I’m sure you can imagine, much of the original content has been lost or rendered incomprehensible in the process, so that the rituals are described in theoretical rather than practical terms.”

“Okay,” says Harry slowly. “That makes sense. And the copy you found was a more accurate translation?”

Tom exchanges a smug smile with Ginny. “A _very_ accurate translation, yes. We believe it to be only one translation removed from the original.”

“And aren’t the rituals described anywhere else? In some other books?”

“See, Harry,” says Ginny, “when the whole of necromancy was classified as Dark about two centuries ago, most of the practical manuals were destroyed. There are books on necromancy floating around in creepy shops catering to the Dark Arts, yes, but those tend to be theoretical, like Tom said. It’s actually very difficult to find a proper How To guide anywhere.”

“Which leads to a lot of people conducting the rituals incorrectly,” Harry muses, “which in turn leads to rampant destruction when the ritual goes wrong, which in turn leads to more evidence that necromancy is purely evil.”

Ginny blinks at him. Tom smiles, his eyes half-lidded.

Harry shakes his head to clear it. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what specific ritual might have attracted any prospective thieves?”

“The book was a treasure trove,” Ginny replies, shrugging. “It could have been any ritual.”

“But it couldn’t have been any thief,” says Tom. He’s leaning back on Harry’s couch, looking comfortable and beautiful and not at all like this was the first time he’d been sat there.

“No,” says Harry. “I already knew that from the lockboxes, but this just adds more wood to the pyre. There’s no way to tell that it’s an unusual translation from the book’s cover, right? So only someone who’d studied the contents of the book in detail would realise that it’s anything other than your standard mistranslation.”

“Mmm, yes,” agreeds Tom.

Ginny frowns. “What do you mean about the lockboxes?”

Harry drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring into the flickering flames in his hearth. “It’s not really a secret, I suppose, though it’s not common knowledge even among aurors. And the junior aurors, well, they’re still working out how to levitate kneazles out of trees, so they wouldn’t know. I asked the other senior aurors and Kingsley to keep mum about it for now, given the circumstances.”

“Harry?”

“The different types of lockboxes all have unique charms and runes intended for different purposes. All of them, no matter the type, are extremely difficult to circumvent; it would take an world-class expert weeks to break them all, and even then, there would still be signs of forced entry in the spell.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “I assume there were no such signs?”

Harry nods absently. 

“And so, since the lockboxes were all properly unlocked, the thief must have known the key spell.” Tom’s eyes are heavy on Harry. “Your thief is an auror.”

Harry laughs. “I’m afraid we can whittle it down a little more than that. See, these were a specific type of lockbox. We almost never use them, because they’re so irritating when working in teams or exchanging evidence, and they’re a nightmare when aurors transfer to different departments. Priority 1 lockboxes can only be unlocked by the person who locks them.”

“So you know it was a member of the investigation team.” Tom looks delighted.

Harry quirks a smile. “Yeah. I do.”

* * *

“I’m not quite sure I follow, darling,” says Lily, the corners of her lips turned up in a smile.

Harry takes a bite of his toast. “You know,” he says. “Some kind of spell that only works when your victim has been… er… seduced.”

James looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Lily bites her bottom lip. “Harry, my love, have you considered that maybe he simply likes you?”

“Lily, honestly!” says Sirius. “The man is evil! And more importantly, he’s all snakey and gross!”

“No, not anymore,” Harry says, shaking his head. “He’s come back all fit. He could be in one of your old calendars.”

“Ignore what I just said,” says Sirius. “Get it, get it!”

It wouldn’t be like this if they were alive, Harry knows. There would be horror, and anger, and terror. But death brings with it a peace so profound that the fears and pains of life are washed away until all that remains is a person’s most primal self, the pared-down truth of their being.

And so where Harry might have expected yelling and arguments from a living family, his family of shades simply teases him, as though he’s discussing the romantic overtures of a bloke from work rather than the Dark Lord who devastated the nation and brought about all of their deaths.

Dealing with the dead can be so pleasant when compared to dealing with the living.

Harry mock scowls at Sirius, then turns back to Lily. “It’s just, if he’s genuine about this flirting, then why me? He’s rather… well. He could do a lot better than me, I mean. So why me?”

“Oh, Harry,” says Lily. “It’s always been about you. Why would that change after twenty-three years?”

Another conversation with his parents, another statement he doesn’t want to have to examine.

“...Right,” he says, and Lily and James smile at him patiently. Time has no meaning for them, now. They’re happy to wait as long as they need to for him to find his epiphany. “Remus, I’m going to be seeing Teddy today. Shall I pass anything on?”

“Just my love, and his mum’s,” says Remus quietly.

“Alright. Until next time, then.”

With his family gone, Harry rests his hand in his hands and sighs. He thought he had committed himself to trusting Ginny’s judgement when he told her about the aurors’ discovery of the flat, and again when he went to her about the stolen books, but here he is, doubting his decision again. Maybe if he knew _why_ she brought Tom back, and _why_ she was sticking close to him, and _why_ she was encouraging Tom to flirt with Harry… Maybe then, he’d feel less uncertain about everything.

He stands and marches to the door, knowing better than to touch his dishes.

“Kreacher! I’m heading out!”

“And good riddance,” Kreacher shrieks back.

Harry grins.

He’s not grinning when he gets to his office and sees the stack of paperwork that’s piled up overnight, though.

There are summaries upon summaries of interviews with former Death Eaters, and even a list of some relevant reading material offered up. None of the books that have been copied and brought to the ministry are _Raising the Dead_ of any edition.

Well, Harry didn’t entirely expect them to find anything useful, but it’s still a little irritating.

In addition to the summaries, there are magically sealed notes from Senior Auror Bermann.

_x -16:00 - No sign of break in routine. Suspect unalarmed._

_18:47 - Suspect enters Most Potente Plants._

_19:03 - Suspect exits Most Potente Plants with purchase._

_19:15 - Suspect enters home._

Not very exciting. According to the appended note, all that was purchased at Most Potente Plants was a Pepper Up Potion.

Harry sighs. Maybe they should have gone with veritaserum. The problem with using truth-extracting potions, though, was that with the sort of training aurors went through, most of the overshare elements induced by the potions could be circumvented. And so, without knowing the precise details needed for yes-no questions, they might very well be unable to learn their suspect’s motivation for the crime, or even who, if anyone, the suspect is working with.

Of course, given the givens, it’s always possible that the suspect had simply wanted a rare book for their collection and has no intention of using it.

Harry turns to his personal correspondence.

_Mate, drinks later? - RW_

_Dear Harry, I hope you’re doing well. Teddy’s been terribly excited to spend the afternoon with his godfather. I can’t remember if I mentioned this before, but he’s going through a phase in which all his food has to be strawberry-flavoured or he refuses to eat it; fortunately, I was able to convince him that all pink food is made of strawberries, so with a quick colour-changing charm, you should be fine. I’ll see you this evening. - AT_

_Harry: Appended is the recipe for Iriran Oje. I think you’ll find that the images are much sharper than you’re used to, and the effects last longer. Feel free to come visit the mooncalves. - RS_

_Love, I’ve started making a list of the more interesting rites I remember from the book we discussed. Ginevra plans to revisit some of the bookstores we patronised in the hopes of finding an inferior translation to use as reference. She’d like to know if you’re free for dinner tonight. - TM_

_Harry, meet me for lunch at Rushdie’s. Don’t even try to squirm out of it; I know you’re not picking up Teddy until 15:30. - HG_

It’s a sad life when an auror’s work mail is less concerning than his personal mail.

* * *

Snape stares at him in horror. “For your sake, Potter, I hope that I misheard you.”

Harry scowls. “It’s not that weird of a question, is it?” He finishes crushing the lacewings and adds them to the simmering cauldron. He stirs anti-clockwise for three rotations, and then reduces the heat.

“You believe that speculation as to the Dark Lord’s love life is a common interest?”

Harry considers this as he scourifies the mortar and pestle and begins to crush the asp eyes. “Well…” he says. “I mean, yeah, probably. There’re probably medical journals wondering if his failed love life is what prompted him to be evil. Or, if the reverse, that his over-active sex drive is what prompted him to be evil. And that’s not even bringing up the _Witch Weekly_ articles, which I suspect have completely exhausted every possible avenue of speculation on the topic.”

“If this is truly the case,” Snape sneers. “Then I suggest you turn to those sources for your answers.”

“But I don’t want to know what people think, I want to know the truth!” Harry protests.

Snape rolls his eyes. “I can hardly provide you with that, Potter. To my knowledge, the Dark Lord had no romantic liaisons when I first served him. On his return, there were… clues that he may have been involved physically with Bellatrix, though I can’t say for certain.”

“Ew,” says Harry.

“Yes, quite,” says Snape. “And I have no idea what relationships he may or may not have had before I left Hogwarts.”

Harry hums and adds the asp eyes to the potion.

“Unbelievable as it may be, you seem to have that potion under control,” Snape comments. “Why have you called me here?”

Harry blinks at him, surprised. “Oh, I didn’t need your help with the potion. It’s plenty easy enough even for me. I just wanted the company.”

Snape sighs, but Harry thinks he maybe looks a little pleased, too.

“If you must,” is all his old professor says, which is really as good as permission to call him whenever Harry feels like it.

“I must,” Harry agrees cheerfully.

* * *

When lunch time comes around, Harry marches off to Rushdie’s with the air of someone heading toward their execution.

He wanders through the buffet and settles in a quiet corner. The food grows more appetising the longer he looks at it, and he’s just contemplating starting alone when Hermione arrives.

“Harry,” she says, setting down her tray and plopping down in the seat across from him. With a flick of her wand, a subtle silencing charm springs to life around them. “It seems we have a lot to catch up on.”

Harry scowls. “Before you start in on me, the whole Tom thing is new to me, too.”

“Oh? And how new is the Resurrection Stone thing?”

Harry freezes.

Hermione sighs and shakes her head. “I know it’s different for you, that the chance to reunite with our lost family and friends is much deeper for you than it is for me. But Harry, don’t you see that that only makes it that much more dangerous for you? Cadmus Peverell—”

“I’m not Cadmus,” Harry interrupts. “It’s completely fine. _I’m_ completely fine.”

“Harry, you’re obviously not! You’ve become so withdrawn!” Hermione protests. “You never seem to talk to us anymore, and you seem to have a great deal going on that you haven’t been mentioning.”

Harry clenches his fists. “Like what, exactly?”

“Well, Ron mentioned that you’re apparently an expert on necromancy now.”

“And you don’t think that’s related to the fact that I have access to one of the most powerful tools of necromancy ever created?” Harry rolls his eyes. “Besides, ‘expert’ is going a little far. And I’m surprised that _you_ would chastise me for pursuing an academic interest, Hermione.”

Hermione stares him down. “I’m not chastising you over your _interest_ , Harry. I agree that it’s a fascinating topic.”

Harry relaxes slightly. “So?”

“It just seems strange that you wouldn’t ever bring it up around us, since your interest has gone so far.” She eyes him. “And how academic is it really? I can’t help but notice that Voldemort seems to be back _again_. Though I admit this one is much more tolerable so far, not that it’s a high bar to cross.”

“Ah,” Harry winces. “Well, that wasn’t anything to do with me. And as I said, I just found out about him, too.”

It’s rather offensive how disbelieving Hermione looks.

“It wasn’t me!”

“Well, it will be if he starts trying to take over the world again, anyway,” says Hermione mercilessly. “But that’s just another piece of _extremely dangerous_ information that you seem to have been hiding from us. It’s one thing to turn to the dead for support in moments of extreme need, but it’s getting to the point where you’re refusing to have any living confidant, even to just let us know to be on our guard about the returning doom!”

Harry looks away, unable to hold her gaze any longer.

Hermione takes a shaky breath. “And I know, maybe things are different now that we’re older—maybe it seems… uncomfortable to confide in Ron and me now that we’re a couple. But you’ve been growing apart from Ginny, too. Don’t you think she deserves to know that her ‘friend’ is the _Dark Lord reborn_?”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Oh, she knows, believe me.”

“She does?”

Finally, something Hermione hasn’t figured out yet!

“Oh, yeah. She’s the one who brought him back, not me.”

Hermione seems stunned. “But that’s…”

“Oh yeah. No, before you ask: I still have no idea why. But I trust her, even not knowing her reasons. I trust that whoever it is that she’s brought back, he’s not the same person as the one I killed.” Harry finally turns to his food. “And us growing apart has nothing to do with the Stone, by the way. We were fine for years after I reclaimed the Stone. It’s only recently that Ginny and I started having… problems, I guess you’d say.”

“Years? You’ve had the Stone for that long?” Hermione frowns. “I honestly thought you’d only gotten it in the past few months, or a half year at most. That’s when I noticed you had started… I don’t know. Fading.”

Harry grins. “No, I picked it up four years ago,” he admits.

“And Ginny? When did that start?”

“I’m not really sure,” Harry shrugs. “We were both so distracted by work that we weren’t really seeing one another, and then it felt like when we did see one another, we were really just friends. It was like that for… two, three months? And then a week or two ago, we ended it officially.”

Hermione seems troubled. “You’ve been having trouble for that long? Does that mean… I mean, is it really, properly over? You won’t be getting together again?”

“Yes, we’re really, properly over. We’re not really looking for the same things, it turns out.” Harry gulps down his tea, which has gone tepid while he was distracted with the conversation. He tries not to think about how he’d been thinking of proposing to Ginny as recently as the afternoon before they broke up, not because he wanted to marry her, exactly, but because he wanted to be married, and she seemed like the best candidate at the time.

“I see,” she says. “And when did you find out about ‘Tom’?”

“Just after our official breakup. I only met him yesterday, though.”

Hermione leans back in her chair, scowling at nothing. “It’s not just me, right? None of this makes any sense. Why would Ginny bring him back? Why would he bother trying to form new connections with muggleborns, half bloods, and blood traitors when he could start riling up the old crowd again? What’s the goal, here?”

“I haven’t been able to figure it out, either,” says Harry. “Ginny doesn’t seem to be under the influence of any spells or potions that I’ve been able to see. For some reason, she decided, while in full possession of her mental faculties, that this was a good course of action. I figured I’d at least give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Hermione bites her lip and nods hesitantly. “Alright. I’m not happy about this, but I’ll wait for more information before I do anything. Just one more question for now, then.”

Harry huffs. “Are you sure you’ll be able to contain yourself?”

Hermione makes a face at him and asks, “‘Thomas Mort’? Really? Is he _trying_ to get caught?”

“Right?” Harry laughs. “It’s insane!”

Harry doesn’t know why he thought this would go poorly. Once there was a time when he’d known Hermione to be as solid as a pillar, as dependable as the sun. And here she is, proving herself unchanged in that way.

So the difference was him.

When _had_ he lost that confidence in her, and why? Was it really due to over-reliance on the Resurrection Stone? Or had his self-distancing been born earlier, back when he was curled in on himself, hiding away in a muggle flat, only feeling safe when no one around him knew his name? He had left the flat behind, but perhaps not as completely as he’d believed.

“‘Mione,” he says. “You’re maybe right. Maybe I’ve been turtling a little too much, and I didn’t even notice. I’ve seen Ginny more often in the past two weeks than I had in months, and it’s been lovely. And talking to you now… I…”

Hermione reaches over to take his hand. “I know how that feels. Thank you for letting me pull you out.”

Harry squeezes her hand gently, feeling his heart swell. “Not really sure I had a choice,” he shrugs, “but no worries, I suppose.”

Hermione shoves him, laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. Hermione the Omniscient.
> 
> Next update: 13 Oct.
> 
> Maybe I should have mentioned this before, but all chapter titles were snatched from Robert Service poems to match the quote at the beginning of Chapter 1.


	4. The Law

“I understand that you probably have concerns at the speed this is going, sir,” Harry says carefully. “But there are so many unknowns that I really think this is the best course of action.”

Kingsley says, “I see. And what do you think?” he asks the other senior aurors.

They look at one another and shrug almost as one person. “I trust Potter’s judgement, sir,” is Mallory’s response. Bermann and Falvry nod in agreement.

Harry winces. Kingsley’s expression doesn’t change, but Harry knows that there is little Kingsley finds more irritating than a lack of opinion or autonomy among his senior staff.

“Very well,” says Kingsley. “Carry on with the covert investigation, then. But I expect that you’ll be ready to jump in as soon as the suspect makes their move.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agrees. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Keep me informed,” is all Kingsley says, but Harry takes it for the dismissal it is.

“You say their routine hasn’t changed,” says Harry as he walks down the hall. “But maybe we should watch how they react during the rest of these former Death Eater interviews. Do they seem overeager or covetous or anything?”

“The default setting for all the juniors is overeager,” Bermann says drily. “But we’ll keep on a lookout for any unusual expressions.”

“Thanks,” says Harry.

When he gets back to his office, Ron is there waiting for him, sprawled in one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Please be here about work,” Harry pleads, shutting the door and raising a silencing charm just in case. “If we have to have the other conversation right now, I might actually die.”

Ron snorts. “Please, I have more class than that. My plan is to get you drunk first.”

Harry laughs, relaxed in a way that he’d never have been able to manage if this pseudo-confrontation had occurred before his conversation with Hermione. “Spiking my butterbeer?”

“With veritaserum, if necessary,” says Ron solemnly.

“Well, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I have Teddy this afternoon, and then Ginny's coming over.”

Ron sighs with theatrical resignation. “Fine, fine,” he says. “But no, I really am here about work. Greengrass was able to find a copy of one of the books on the list. It’s called _Travels Through_ , and no I did not forget a word, that’s the whole title.”

“Anything hints in there about what they could be after?” asks Harry, perking up.

“Haven’t really gone through it yet, honestly,” Ron says, shrugging. “But Greengrass and Nott both found other books in their personal libraries, too. Not books that were on the list, but books on the same topic that might give us more information. What do you want us to do with them?”

“Where are the other titles we’ve found being held?” asks Harry.

“Right now, in Patil’s desk drawer, basically.”

Harry hums thoughtfully. “Why there?”

Ron raises his eyebrows at him. “Well, we know our thief can get into the ministry, can break into storerooms, and can unlock our lockboxes. The standard setup didn’t exactly seem wise.”

“Who has access to Patil’s office?”

“Just her. And after yesterday, she has more wards in there than Gringotts.” Ron watches Harry closely. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

Harry leans back in his chair. “The thief? Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

Ron eyes him for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. So, the books?”

“Keep them in Patil’s desk for now,” says Harry. “And keep the juniors busy, but leave them out of all of the serious research.”

Ron sighs. “So it’s like that, then.” He grins. “At least we have plenty of them to spare.”

Harry laughs. “We do, at that.”

* * *

“Andromeda,” Harry chides. “You were supposed to bring me my Teddy, not whoever this is.”

“I’m Teddy!” the little boy squeals. “It’s me, Uncle Harry! It’s just my hair that’s different!”

“You?” Harry looks the little boy up and down, wearing an exaggerated thinking face. “Hmm, no, you can’t be my Teddy. When I last saw him, he was _this_ tall,” he says, holding his hand so that it’s down two centimetres from the royal blue crown of Teddy’s head. “And you, well, you’re practically a giant. No, you’re certainly not my godson.”

“I am, I am! I’m growing _so much_. Grandma says I’m taller than my mum was!” says Teddy.

Harry looks at Andromeda, his lips twitching.

“Taller than your mum was _at your age_ ,” Andromeda clarifies.

Harry grins. “Are you ready to go, Teddy?” he asks the little boy.

“Yes! I packed my favourite story, my colouring book, my crayons, and my dragon.” Unprompted, Teddy pulls off his backpack, unzips it, and pulls out a stuffed dragon that seems larger than the inside of the backpack all on its own. “Cousin Draco gave him to me.”

“That’s nice of him,” says Harry. “Did you tell him thank you?”

Teddy does not acknowledge this question, having been distracted by the toy, which is now blowing little orange cotton ball flames. “His name is Sneezy,” he tells Harry.

Harry eyes the mess of cotton that’s building up on Andromeda’s clean stone flour. “I can see why,” he says. “Why don’t you put Sneezy back in the bag, and we’ll pull him out again when we get to Grimmauld Place.”

“Okay!” says Teddy. He stuffs the dragon back into his backpack and grabs Harry’s hand. “Bye, Grandma!”

“Goodbye, my darling,” says Andromeda.

“Uncle Harry,” says Teddy a moment later, when they’ve apparated in front of Harry’s door. “Mr Kreacher knows that I only eat strawberries now, right? I don’t want any of that green stuff for my tea.”

“I think I mentioned it,” says Harry as he opens the door and ushers Teddy inside.

The sight that greets Teddy when he makes a bee-line for the parlor has him stopping dead in the entranceway, his jaw dropping.

The child-sized table that’s been set up is _covered_ in strawberries. There are little pink sandwiches that have been cut out into strawberry shapes and studded with seeds, little pink muffins that were baked in strawberry-shaped tins, and little pink tea cakes that are topped with sliced strawberries. Even the children’s tea service is painted with little strawberries on the side.

Kreacher _adores_ Teddy.

Just by the table is an adult chair with a small end table by one arm. On this end table rests Harry’s own tea: one plain sandwich sliced into quarters and a steaming mug. It’s exactly what Harry would have wanted, but the comparison between his tea and Teddy’s forces him to bite back a grin.

Harry tucks a pink napkin into the collar of Teddy’s shirt, and then he sits back and let’s the boy’s chatter wash over him.

The feeling of peace is profound, and Harry thinks that, whatever Hermione believes, it’ll be some time before he’ll be ready to trade his time with his godson in exchange for a permanent residence beyond the Veil.

“And I asked Grandma if I could go back to Madame Durand’s class, but Grandma said I can’t.”

Harry blinks in surprise and takes advantage of Teddy’s enthusiastic chewing to interrupt. “But I thought you didn’t like Madame Durand! You were so excited to leave her class behind!”

“Yes, Madame Durand was just dreadful,” says Teddy, sounding exactly like a mini Andromeda. His hair flickers to a grey-streaked black, and his eyes go from honey-brown to silver. “I like Madame Dubois much better; elle est très gentille.”

“Then why do you want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?” asks Harry.

Teddy explains, “Madame Dubois doesn’t let us play Exploding Snap, because Charlotte got burned one time.”

“I see,” says Harry. “So even though you didn’t like anything else about Madame Durand, you want to go back to her class just so that you can play Exploding Snap in school?”

Teddy nods cheerfully and bites into another pink tea cake. They look delicious; Harry hopes Kreacher set aside a few for him.

“Okay,” says Harry. “What if Madame Dubois let you play a version of Exploding Snap that wouldn’t risk you losing all your fingers? Would you still want to go back to Madame Durand’s class?”

Teddy considers this question very carefully. “So I could have Exploding Snap _and_ Madame Dubois?” he asks. At Harry’s nod, Teddy decides, “No,” and eats another strawberry.

Harry hums. “Well,” he says. “Do you want to clean up and play with Sneezy?”

“Yes,” Teddy shrieks, and he flies out of his chair.

By the time Andromeda appears to pick Teddy up, Harry is covered head-to-toe in a film of orange cotton, has developed a somewhat scratchy throat from repeated rehearsal of Teddy’s story-song book, and is ready to sleep for approximately 100 years.

“Bye, Mr Kreacher,” says Teddy, giving the old elf a hug. His skin turns a soft greyish green. “Thank you for my strawberry tea. I love you!”

Kreacher hugs him back gently, looking misty-eyed.

“Bye, Uncle Harry!” Harry kneels down to receive his own hug. “Next year, I’m going to be seven, and I’m going to learn Swedish! And then we’ll talk lots in Swedish, okay?”

“Thanks for the warning, but I hope to see you a few times before then,” says Harry drily.

Andromeda smirks at him. “I’ll send you a few of my old workbooks, shall I?”

Harry makes a face, but he nods. “Thanks.” He kisses Teddy’s hair, which has turned solid black and messy. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too, Uncle Harry!” says Teddy, and then he and his grandmother are gone.

Harry sighs and looks around. Absent Teddy’s inevitable mess and noise, Grimmauld Place suddenly seems much emptier.

“Back to the grind, I suppose,” says Harry.

Kreacher sneers. “Master can grind as Master likes,” he says. “Kreacher is goings to sleep.”

Harry sighs again. He’d love a nap, but he still needs to make dinner before Ginny arrives.

* * *

“Sorry, sorry,” says Harry as he opens the door. “I’m running a little late. I’ll just…” he trails off when he sees who it is that is standing on his front porch.

Tom smiles at him. “Ginevra couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. She’s looking into a rare bookstore that’s some distance away, and she couldn’t make it back in time. She’s hoping to meet you at lunch tomorrow, instead.”

Harry tries to remember if the note had specified who exactly would be attending dinner, but his brain doesn’t seem to be functioning at its normal speed. “That’s… okay,” he says. After a moment, he realises he’s still just standing there staring at Tom, and he breaks into motion, flustered. “Sorry, come on in.” He moves aside, holding the door open as Tom steps lightly into the house.

“I brought some butterbeer,” says Tom, lifting a paper bag. “Since you like it so much.”

“Oh, thanks! I can take your cloak?” He cringes at his own stupidity.

Tom only says, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and then he stands still and allows Harry to reach up and around his shoulders to undo the clasp and pull off the cloak. Tom is tall enough that Harry has to step in close to reach, and by the time Harry is able to pull away to hang up Tom’s cloak, he’s bright red.

“Well, uh, the family dining room is this way,” says Harry nervously. “Sorry, I’m usually on the informal side.”

Tom gives him an amused look. “I know.”

Harry makes a detour to the kitchen to grab some glasses and a bottle opener and carries them into the little dining room. When he sees the table, which has been laid out but remains foodless, he winces. “Right, dinner isn’t quite ready yet. We could sit in the parlor with the drinks if you like.”

“Anywhere is fine,” says Tom. He sets down the case of butterbeer on the credenza and gently lifts the bottle opener from Harry’s grasp to open one of the bottles.

Harry simply stands and watches him, mesmerised by the fluidity of his movements, until Tom raises an eyebrow and holds out the bottle, saying, “May I?”

Harry flushes and hurriedly puts down the glasses so that Tom can pour. As he does, the timer charm dings, and Harry excuses himself to go check on dinner.

Alone in the kitchen, Harry takes a moment to try to centre himself after he’s levitated dinner out of the oven.

It doesn’t work.

He’s still standing with his eyes closed, attempting to even his breath and slow his heart beat, when Tom asks, “Everything alright, love?” from approximately a metre away, and all of Harry’s hard work to calm himself is undone.

“Yes, I just—that is, I’m—I mean, I—”

Tom steps up to him and sets his hands on Harry’s hips. His head lowers, and Harry shivers, expecting a kiss. Instead, Tom rests his forehead against Harry’s, and they stand there together for several long moments, breathing together.

Finally, Harry pulls away. “Thank you,” he says, not meeting Tom’s eyes.

“Not at all, love,” says Tom, his fingers lingering on Harry until Harry has moved completely beyond his reach.

Harry plates the food in silence. He can feel Tom’s eyes on him, but the attention no longer feels as overwhelming as it did a moment ago, and he can feel himself relaxing.

“You know,” says Harry as they settle themselves at the table. Harry does not pull out Tom’s chair, nor does Tom pull out Harry’s, though he can see Tom eying his chair for a moment as though thinking about it. “Ginny used to call me that sometimes. Er, ‘love,’ I mean.”

“Did she?” asks Tom noncommittally. “This smells delicious, thank you.”

“Did she?” Harry repeats. “Or was that you?”

Tom pauses for a moment, his fork and knife suspended over his plate. “It’s hard to say, exactly,” he replies. “There was a period of time where we were almost the same person. For some time after we completed the ritual and separated, it was a struggle to remember who we were before we were us.” Tom hesitates, then adds, “And which pieces of our old selves we wished to reclaim.” He meets Harry’s eyes.

“So Ginny brought you back to get you out of her head?” asks Harry.

Tom wrinkles his nose. “We—Ginevra and I—created this body using some comparatively very benign rites that we found in a book on necromancy, and we did it to be separate again, to have our bodies to ourselves. It is nearly a falsehood to refer to what we did as ‘bringing me back’; as I am now, I am rather a new person altogether.”

Harry takes a moment to chew thoughtfully. “Lord Voldemort as rehabilitated Ginny Weasley,” he muses.

Tom smiles. “If you like. Though more technically, I fought against Voldemort just as you did.”

But how willingly? But Harry isn’t ready to run through that line of questioning just yet. Instead, he asks, “How did you come to share a body with Ginny?”

“You know the answer to that question,” says Tom, taking a sip of his butterbeer, his eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“Tell me anyway,” says Harry, though he thinks he really might.

“In our first year at Hogwarts,” says Tom, “we opened the Chamber of Secrets. We weren’t an us, back then, though. Ginevra wrote in my diary, and I used the emotion and _soul_ that she poured into her words to possess her. I was going to drain her soul completely so that I could have enough power to regain my corporeal form. Then, you stopped me.”

“I destroyed your diary,” Harry says, not quite agreeing. “Dumbledore said that killed you.”

“It could have,” says Tom. “It would have. But by the time you stabbed my diary, I had already left it almost entirely. Without it to anchor me, I could no longer build a body to live in, and as I could not return to the destroyed diary, I was instead pulled toward my last anchor, my last vessel—Ginevra.”

“Where you lived for the next 11-odd years,” says Harry. “But who was in control?”

“She was,” says Tom. “At first, at least. I was horribly weakened by the magical backlash of the diary’s destruction. For some time, she was unaware that I was present. Then, I existed only as an… influence. Then, I was a voice. Then, I was increasingly able to push myself to the surface, sometimes even to take control. Sometimes we fought. Often we agreed. And eventually, it grew to be difficult to tell what emotions, what thoughts, what… _desires_ ,” the intensity of Tom’s eyes made Harry shiver, “came from whom.”

Harry licks his lips. “And now?” he asks.

“Now,” says Tom, his eyes tracing the contours of Harry’s face. “Now we have a better idea.”

Harry swallows. “Let’s open another bottle,” he says, standing.

As it turns out, an evening alone—a date—with Tom feels like being wrapped in a heavy, warm weight, like being held tightly and close. Whenever Tom approaches, whenever their hands touch, whenever their eyes meet, there’s an undercurrent in the air like an approaching storm, like lightning could strike at any moment.

It feels like it used to with Ginny, sometimes, though Harry is growing increasingly uncertain that it was ever really Ginny who brought out these feelings in him.

Tom leaves late in the evening without asking to be invited upstairs, and Harry, shamefully, is disappointed.

* * *

The next morning, Harry is once again greeted by a desk overflowing with memos.

The collection of information about necromancy being amassed by the aurors is impressive, but when it comes to identifying the MUTANT...

“Still nothing?” Harry frowns. Surely the confiscated books had been stolen with some specific purpose in mind. It doesn’t make sense to him that their known suspect hasn’t deviated in behaviour at all, not even to pick up necessary ingredients for a ritual or potion.

Harry taps his fingers against the top memo thoughtfully. He’s beginning to, grudgingly, doubt the veracity of the reports the senior aurors are sending him.

He scribbles onto a few memos and sends them flying off. Minutes later, Ron knocks on his open door, eyebrows raised.

Harry waves him in, along with Patil, Greengrass, and Nott.

Harry spells the door shut behind Nott and raises his silencing charms as the four settle into Harry’s haphazardly placed office chairs.

“What’s this about, then?” asks Ron.

Harry leans back and crosses his arms. “The longer this investigation goes on, the crazier my conspiracy theories get. You’re all due to be promoted to senior auror by the end of this month. I want you to talk me back down to Earth.”

“That’ll be the day,” says Nott, but it's not said in quite as unfriendly a tone as it might have been even a week ago.

Harry rolls his eyes at him.

Ron frowns at Harry. “I thought you said you already knew who the MUTANT is?”

The others stare at him in surprise.

“If you already know,” says Greengrass testily. “Then why are we going through all this work to find out?”

“Because I’m less concerned with who it is than with why they did it,” Harry answers mildly. “And I can’t make heads or tails of their motives, especially since, according to the other senior aurors, they don’t seem to be _doing_ anything.”

“How are you so certain who it is?” asks Patil.

“We haven’t really used Priority 1 lockboxes since you lot have been out of training,” says Harry. “But they’re only unlockable by the person who locked them in the first place.”

“So you’re tracking the original investigation team?” Greengrass tilts her head to one side, eyes on Harry. “That’s… Jakobs, Everett, that idiot Burnes, and… Peters?”

“Minimally,” says Harry. “But most of the surveillance is focussed on the actual thief. See, the lockboxes record the magical signature of the people who access them. Everett sealed the lockboxes at 19:43, and Everett unlocked them at 02:57.”

Everyone stares at him.

“...Everett?” asks Greengrass. “I honestly expected Jakobs. Or Peters. Or even Burnes. Everett is a little…”

“Useless,” Ron supplies. “Don’t give me that look, Patil. You know it’s true.”

Harry nods. “My confusion that the thief is Everett was a large part of why I requested permission to delay the arrest in lieu of additional surveillance. The thought of Everett working alone on this… or anything, really… It’s mind-blowing.”

“So rather than allowing for the possibility that you’ve been wildly underestimating one of the juniors, you’ve decided to put a halt on all the normal functioning of the entire Auror Department so that we can go around investigating one of your pet theories?” snaps Patil.

Greengrass looks at her. “I can tell you’ve never worked with Everett before, Padma.”

Patil rolls her eyes. “He can’t possibly be that bad.”

“He really can,” says Ron.

“I can understand not knowing about the lockboxes,” says Nott. “After all, none of us did, either. But how did he not notice his magical signature being recorded when he sealed them? It’s a rather distinct sensation, and he would have felt it for each lockbox he sealed.”

Patil pauses. “That’s true,” she says hesitantly.

“At the risk of being repetitive,” says Ron, “he’s a total idiot.”

“But that level of magical insensitivity, from an auror?” says Nott.

“Are we certain that he didn’t notice?” asks Patil dubiously.

“I stuck a Doorbell Charm to him and pinged it every minute during the meeting we had right after the theft was discovered,” Harry volunteers. 

“Potter!” says Patil, scandalised.

“A what?” asks Nott.

“It’s a silent signaling spell,” says Patil, radiating disapproval. “Very new; developed last year, I think. You cast a sort of receiver charm on someone, and then every time you activate the spell, their magic responds with a small pulse that’s undetectable to a third party. Everett’s magical aura must have been driving him crazy for the entire meeting!”

“Yeah, he didn’t even twitch,” says Harry.

Even Patil seems stunned by this revelation.

“So,” says Nott. “We either have Everett, who is an idiot, an incompetant, and so incredibly magically insensitive that he doesn’t sense a targeted signalling spell, or else we have Everett, the evil genius who has been fooling us all along.”

Ron makes a face. “And either way, we have Everett, confirmed thief of a bunch of books on necromancy.” He looks at Harry. “What has the surveillance found?”

“Absolutely bloody nothing,” says Harry.

Greengrass smirks at him. “And so now we finally get to your conspiracy theories. Do you want surveillance of the surveyors?”

Harry runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. Apparently, Everett hasn’t met with anyone, hasn’t gone anywhere, hasn’t done anything weird. He’d need _something_ to perform one of those rituals, wouldn’t he?”

“Unless it’s one of the rituals our original MUTANT was already prepared for,” Patil points out. “Or are we assuming that Everett is the original MUTANT?”

“I know he’s not,” says Harry. “I’m still checking out the original MUTANT, but all signs point to them being a minimal threat level. I’m more worried about what Everett could possibly be planning.”

“Have we been able to confirm whether the astrological conditions required for The Third Circle render it unfeasible?” asks Greengrass.

No one has.

“I myself have found references to the rite,” says Greengrass, frowning. “But nothing concrete in terms of how to actually conduct it. Assuming that the surveillance is accurate and Everett really hasn’t been purchasing anything useful, The Third Circle is by far the most concerning of the three rites he could conduct with the materials he has on hand.”

Ron’s eyes flicker to Harry. “What’s it for?” he asks Greengrass.

Greengrass’s lips twist. “Just what you’d expect from necromancy: it’s a resurrect-the-dead rite. All I know for sure is that it requires a human sacrifice to be drowned in some potion, and then I suppose the stars align, and an excess of chanting later, the body of the human sacrifice wakes with the mind and soul of whomever was resurrected. Really nasty stuff.”

“Eighteen is a little young to be sacrificing people to bring back your Hogwarts girlfriend,” says Ron. “So, sorry, but are we back to the Death Eater theory?”

“Everett has never really seemed like much of an extremist,” says Nott. “He’s a half blood, and to my knowledge, he’s on good terms with his muggle family.”

Harry feels a headache beginning to throb its way along his skull. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll ask Tom and see if he knows anything about the astrology required for The Third Circle,” he mutters absently.

There’s a moment of silence while everyone processes that statement, including Harry. He winces.

“Tom,” repeats Ron, staring at him. “You mean Fit Tom from the pub?”

Harry goes red.

“‘Fit Tom?’” asks Nott, smirking. “Weren’t you dating Weaslette?”

“We broke up,” says Harry.

“What?” exclaims Ron. “When was this?”

“Can we please save this for the pub and get back to talking about the case?” pleads Harry.

“Only if we’re coming to the pub, too,” says Greengrass, smirking at him. “After all, it sounds like Fit Tom is just the sort of person we should be interviewing. Expert on Dark rituals, is he?”

Harry hesitates.

“Harry!” says Ron, horrified.

“Well, you know,” says Harry vaguely. “He’s just landed in England, and there were different laws where he was before.” It’s even sort of true; after all, the realm of death has _very_ different rules.

Different rules...

The four other aurors all try to talk at once, but Harry raises his hand to silence them. “Wait,” he says. “That just made me think of something.”

Everyone stares at him with varying levels of impatience, but they do all wait quietly.

Harry frowns off into space. “Part of why I’ve been struggling with this is that it’s just so hard to imagine what anyone could want so desperately to do with those books _other_ than to raise Voldemort, like Ron said. Necromancy isn’t really well-suited to bringing back loved ones on a permanent basis; generally, a soul that’s been to the other side doesn’t want to end up back here, and so the only dead-raising you could be really confident in would be with a soul that has already been through the ringer and made its choice, so to speak.” Or, more accurately, with a soul that’s never left.

“Okay,” says Nott, staring at him intensely. “So assuming that Everett can read the fine-print, which is a big assumption as far as I’m concerned, then Everett’s goal is probably to revive the Dark Lord. The wizard who slaughtered and tortured people like Everett’s mother and cousins, during Everett’s lifetime. Are we really buying this?”

Harry tries not to think of sitting at the pub pressed into Tom’s side, of last night's date, sharing butterbeer and dinner and pleasant conversation, and how wonderful it had felt. 

“My godson told me,” says Harry slowly, “that even though he loves his current teacher and hates his old teacher, he wants to switch classes just because he doesn’t like one of his new rules.”

“How adorable,” says Greengrass, voice dripping in sarcasm. “And we care because…”

“Because Everett doesn’t need to be a pureblood extremist to want to bring You Know Who back,” says Patil thoughtfully. “He doesn’t even need to love You Know Who or hate the current government. There just needs to be something he really, desperately wants that he can only conceivably have if he brings You Know Who back.”

Ron lets his head fall back in despair. “Can’t anything about this case be straightforward?”

Greengrass frowns suddenly. “You said surveillance hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. What exactly have they done to confirm that? They’ve checked incoming and outgoing Floo calls? They’ve checked the records of his Gringotts account? They’ve checked Everett for hexes, potions, and the like?”

“They should have done,” says Harry. “That’s all standard.”

“Potter,” says Nott condescendingly. “There’s a reason we answer to _you_ and not the other senior aurors. Merlin, there’s a reason _they_ answer to you, too. I really wanted to believe that you raced up the greasy pole just because you’re the Chosen One, but you’re actually a brilliant auror. Things that seem standard to you aren’t necessarily standard to the rest of us.”

“Especially not the other senior aurors,” Ron agrees. “They’re bloody idiots.”

Harry winces. The truth is, until Harry had joined the aurors, a typical investigation had involved the application of a few tracing spells, a Priori Incantatem, and perhaps a truth spell. Harry solved a mountain of cold cases as a junior, and when questioned by his stunned superiors how he’d managed, he tried to explain that he’d simply needed to follow the—in one case literal—bloody footprints to the killer. Motives, physical evidence, money trails… The sort of sleuthing Harry remembers from muggle books and television simply didn’t seem to exist in wizarding Britain until Harry forcibly introduced it. “I am also rapidly coming to that conclusion,” Harry concedes. “Okay. I’ll let them continue the physical tailing. You lot get to do the actual investigating.”

“Joy,” says Greengrass tonelessly.

After the four aurors have filed out of his office, Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial of the Iriran Oje that he’d brewed the day before using Rolf’s recipe. It’ll probably be painfully overwhelming to test it out in the Ministry of Magic, but Harry doesn’t want to be obvious about having taken it when he meets Tom and Ginny.

If Rolf is right, the Iriran Oje should be able to show him anything he might have missed when he looked at Ginny before using the Hyggja At.

She’s behaving exactly like herself; he has no reason to believe she’s been influenced. And he does trust her. He just wants to be completely sure before he’s so far down this path with Tom that he can’t turn around again. If he isn’t already.

He gulps down the potion and winces as the world around him explodes into colour.

“Okay,” he says. “Time for lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up 20 Oct. <3
> 
> **Why Teddy?** I like to think that after all that shaming Harry threw at Remus, Harry doesn't do the same thing and just drop Teddy. I prefer it when EWE at least mentions Harry's regular presence in Teddy's life. **Okay, but then why SO MUCH Teddy?** For purely self-indulgent reasons, I wanted to throw in a few headcanons: 1) Kreacher thinks of Teddy as Regulus Reborn; 2) affluent British purebloods habitually study French and Swedish before heading to Hogwarts, because those are the languages of the dominant wizarding communities/schools in Europe; 3) Draco made the effort to reconnect with his (probably) saner aunt and her grandson after the war. I also wanted to set up a not-very-funny joke for later in the fic, but the kidfic portion was mostly for the headcanons, sorry. :D
> 
> **Ginny & Tom:** Here we finally have the main premise of that dynamic explained. You might have noticed that this fic is set up as Part 1 of a series; the other part I've planned (and am currently writing) is a ~10k story that focusses entirely on the growth of their dynamic, with snipppets from the end of Ginny's first year onward. I'm hoping to post that fic shortly after all of this one is up, but we'll see how that goes.


	5. The Spell

Rolf hadn’t been exaggerating. The colours of visible magic shown by the Iriran Oje potion are _so much_ brighter what Harry is accustomed to from dipping his spectacles in the Hyggja At.

He stumbles slightly as he makes his way through ministry halls, which are glowing with a complex web of interlaced charms. Harry recognises many of the protection wards, but some of them, the ones buried deeply under layers of other spells, are completely new to him despite the fact that they thrum with age.

Harry almost wants to stay and investigate, but he suspects that even his pristine reputation as an auror wouldn’t hold up to him staring at the walls muttering to himself. And anyway, if he lingers any longer, he’ll be late to lunch.

Ginny and Tom have chosen a cafe that’s a little upscale for Harry’s tastes, but the ostentatiousness is lessened by the fact that they opted for a table outside.

The deck is decorated as a garden, with the tables placed in lovely little pockets of magical plants and trees. It makes each table feel as though it’s set in its own private room.

Ginny and Tom both stand to greet him. Ginny busses his cheek in a friendly sort of way, and Tom kisses Harry’s hand with a courtly bow that has Harry flushing and biting his inside cheek.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t make it last night,” Ginny tells Harry insincerely. “I do hope that you managed to enjoy yourselves without me.”

“We did alright,” says Harry, not meeting her eyes.

Ginny smirks at him.

Three menus float over to their table, and for a moment, they’re quiet as they decide what to order.

“So,” says Harry as the menus speed off to the kitchen. “Did you manage to find anything interesting?”

As Ginny describes her search for another copy of _Raising the Dead_ , Harry studies her closely. The Iriran Oje lets him see the deep glow of her magical core, the glimmer of her cosmetic charms, the protection spells she’s woven into her jewelry, but it reveals no compulsion spell or any other sign that her mind has been tampered with.

Neither Ginny nor Tom show any of the tell-tale shadows of truly Dark magic.

Harry tries to decide whether or not he’s disappointed.

“And what about you?” asks Ginny. “How is the case progressing?”

Harry makes a face. “It’s not. We’re starting to believe that our suspect may just be using your old set-up to complete a rite, though, rather than picking up anything new. So that limits them to...”

“The same rites we used: The Returning Reign, the Red Pheasant, and the Third Circle,” says Tom. “And also a mild headache reliever, if they’re so inclined.”

Ginny shakes her head. “They’d have to be Merlin himself to get the Red Pheasant to work any time soon. It took us more than a year to build up a magical power source strong enough for what we needed, and that was with us using some… _inspired_ methods. And the Third Circle is completely out of the question, of course.”

“Mmm, yes,” says Tom. “But do they know that?”

“I mentioned it at our first department-wide meeting for the case,” Harry admits. “But I didn’t remember any details, and I still don’t. Something about astrological conditions that only occur every hundred years or so.”

Ginny and Tom exchange glances. “And you just… knew that. Right off the top of your head?” asks Ginny dubiously.

Harry shrugs. After effectively revealing his closet necromancy interests to the entire Auror Department, sharing it with Ginny and Tom is nothing. “It’s a hobby.”

Ginny snorts; Tom’s eyes are bright.

“But anyway,” says Harry, “they have the book now. All the books. And your special translation of _Raising the Dead_ will be pretty clear on what’s needed, right?”

Ginny makes a face. “To a given definition of ‘clear.’”

“One of the great joys of translation,” says Tom loftily, ignoring Ginny mock gagging beside him, “is puzzling out the author’s underlying intention as well as their explicitly stated words. In this case, a deeper understanding of the colloquial terminology of the time allowed us to dismiss the implied conditions for the literal translation and instead settle on the correct timing for the ritual: approximately 3 and a half months ago.”

“Okay,” says Harry slowly. “But someone only using a literal translation would assume the timing would be… when?”

“In three days,” Ginny supplies. “Right around sunset.”

“And what happens if they try to conduct the ritual then?”

Tom tilts his head to one side. “Nothing undeadly,” he says, and Harry sags with relief until Tom continues. “On the other hand, someone will die.”

Harry jerks up. “What?”

Their food arrives, and the scent of it as it appears on the table is divine. Harry doesn’t even look at it.

Tom casually unfolds his napkin to free his silverware. “As Ginevra mentioned, it is very unlikely that they’ll manage to use the Red Pheasant ritual to create a living receptacle the way we did. This means that they’ll require a human sacrifice to contain the soul they intend to summon. No soul will actually be summoned, of course, but our would-be necromancer will only find that out after they have laid their sacrifice to rest in the potion.”

Harry closes his eyes. “What about the last rite?”

“Other than the headache cure, I assume?” asks Tom, smiling.

Harry scowls at him. “The possession rite. Returning Reign.”

Tom’s eyes go dark with interest. “You do seem to know your way around a necromancy pentagram, love.”

“There isn’t much damage they could do with that one on its own,” Ginny muses. “Summon souls? Not a big deal. Minor possession? Whatever. After the candles burn down, the soul just pops back to the other side. Unless they’re anchored to a living body, anyway, but we used the Third Circle for that.”

Harry licks his lips. “The feeling around the office,” he says, ignoring the way Tom’s eyes are fixed on him, “is that the goal is to resurrect Voldemort.”

Tom smirks. “A little late to the party, are they?”

Ginny giggles.

“What would happen if they did try to summon Voldemort’s soul?” asks Harry. “Would they be able to summon any of the soul pieces remaining beyond the Veil? I couldn’t, but…”

Ginny covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “You… tried?”

Tom is frozen, his fork halfway up to his mouth.

“Er...” says Harry.

“What rite did you use?” asks Tom.

“The Resurrection Stone,” Harry confesses. “From the _Tale of the Three Brothers_.”

“The children’s story?” asks Ginny, disbelievingly.

“Do you have the Elder Wand?” asks Tom.

“Can we please focus?” demands Harry crossly.

Tom leans back in his eye, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Of course,” he says, visibly restraining himself. “It’s most likely that nothing would happen at all if they attempted to summon me. I’m not sure what would have occurred while my soul was still fractured in Death’s realm, but I am now… whole.”

“We used the Returning Reign rite as well,” says Ginny. “With it, we were able to piece Tom’s soul back together.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at Tom. “You deliberately left that out of our discussion last night.”

Tom meets his gaze calmly. “It wasn’t relevant. I am, primarily, the Diary horcrux. Mine was the largest of the soul pieces by far, and even without that, the length of time I spent growing and healing with Ginevra would have been enough to give me the edge when it came to power. And the other soul pieces were rather…”

“Damaged,” supplies Harry, remembering his own encounters with each of the horcruxes.

Tom winces, but he agrees. “Quite. I remember their experiences, but it’s blurry, as though I’m remembering…” he visibly struggles to explain himself.

“A drunken bender,” says Ginny.

Tom gives her a look, but finally he nods. “More or less.”

“Okay,” says Harry. “So you’re all one big happy soul now. And since you’ve got a body of your own, the Returning Reign rite definitely won’t work on you?”

Tom hesitates. “ _Probably_ won’t work on me.”

Harry stares at him. “Great. So, what we have is a wannabe necromancer who’s either going to murder someone to no effect, summon you to no effect, or succeed in summoning you, with lots of effects.”

Ginny says, “Not quite to no effect in the second case. It’s very evident that the Returning Reign rite is connected, so if no soul appears, the obvious explanation is…”

“That you’re actually not dead.” Harry rubs his forehead tiredly, feeling his palm scrape over his old scar. “Excellent. Just what we need.”

“Good thing Harry Potter is on the case,” says Tom mildly. “Is anyone in the mood for dessert?”

* * *

Harry is still feeling dazed when he returns to the ministry, and so he isn’t paying close enough attention as he trots down the corridor.

He’s thinking of the evidence storeroom that the original Dark Muggle Investigation team had been using. There could be residual traces of some magic that he hadn’t noticed when he’d done his first sweep of the room after the theft. He might as well take a look, as long as he’s still under the influence of the Iriran Oje. He takes a sudden left and runs head-on into someone hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Sorry, sorry!” comes a familiar voice from under a miasma of colours.

“Everett?” asks Harry. He tries not to squint reflexively to see through the magic wrapped around Everett’s head like an opalescent octopus. “Where are you off to?”

“We have another round of interviews scheduled,” pipes up Peters. When Harry turns to look at her, he finds that her whole head is likewise engulfed in a swirling mass of tentacles.

“Good, good,” says Harry. His stomach is sinking rapidly. “Do you know where I can find Burnes and Jakobs?”

Two hours later, Harry has not made it to the storeroom, but he has found Burnes and Jakobs.

Harry grabs some memo paper off of a trainee and scribbles out, _Meet me at Patil’s office._ He waves off fives copies of it.

Ron, Nott, and Greengrass are already in Patil’s office, along with Patil herself, when Harry arrives.

“Hi again, sorry,” says Harry. “Ron, is it alright if I cast the Imperius Curse on you for a second?”

Everyone stares at him.

“Er,” says Ron. “Do I want to know why?”

A knock sounds at the door, and Harry nods to Patil to open it.

“You summoned me, Potter?” says Kingsley wryly.

Harry cringes. “Minister, sir,” he says.

Kingsley’s lips twitch in amusement. “Just tell me why I’m here, Potter.”

“I took a potion that makes magic visible,” says Harry. “To help me reinspect the breached evidence storeroom, among other things. But before I could make it to the storeroom, I ran into Everett and Peters.”

“So they _are_ hexed,” says Greengrass smugly, seeing the point he’s leading them to. “I knew those idiot senior aurors couldn’t be trusted.”

Kingsley’s eyebrows shoot up.

“To be fair, the Imperius Curse is generally considered to be undetectable,” says Patil. “So you want to compare the visible representation of a known Imperius to the phenomenon you observed around Everett and Peters?”

“And you need my approval to cast an Unforgivable,” sighs Kingsley. “Well, who’s the victim?”

Ron groans in resignation. “ _Fine_ ,” he says. “Just don’t make me do anything stupid, please?”

Harry casts, and the same uncomfortable swirl of tentacle-like colours flow around Ron’s head as he’d seen around Everett and the others.

“Well?” asks Patil.

Harry ends the spell. “It’s the same,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “I’ll make a copy of my memories for you.”

Kingsley nods. “What about the rest of the team? Burnes and Jakobs?”

“I checked them out,” Harry confirms. “Burnes is cursed, too. Jakobs is clean, but she joined the team a day later when I moved her over from misdemeanor response.”

“This is excellent news!” says Greengrass. When everyone stares at her, she adds, “Well, isn’t it? We were splitting hairs, trying to figure out what motive Everett could possibly have! And now that we know that the motive isn’t his at all, it’ll be easier to move forward!”

“Back to the good ole Death Eaters,” says Ron.

“Back to square one,” corrects Nott. “We know Everett, at least, was definitely the one in possession of the books, and contact tracing of him came up clean, remember?”

Everyone looks at Harry.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “It seems as though he hasn’t done anything but work and go home, except…” he hesitates.

“Except?” asks Kingsley.

“He bought a Pepper Up Potion from Most Potente Plants,” says Harry slowly. “I suppose he could have handed the books off there.”

“Talk to the owners; find out who else was in that shop, even if you need to search their memories.” Kingsley looks at each of them. “It was one thing when we had a simple case of an enthusiastic reader, and another when we had a case of a security breach in the ministry. I hope I don’t have to tell you that casting an Unforgivable on a team of aurors is an act of willful violence, and it’s considered intent to commit treason.”

“As someone who has broken into the ministry on multiple occasions _and_ cast Unforgivables in the process, I can disconfirm the definite violent intent, and I resent the accusation of treason,” Harry interjects. He rather feels that treason is in the eye of the beholder.

Kingsley gives him the side-eye. “You five are in charge of this investigation as of this moment,” he says. “Keep your findings between us for now.”

With that, Kingsley exits Patil’s office, and the rest of them are left staring at one another.

“So,” says Greengrass. “Pub?”

* * *

They do end up going to the pub.

“I do have some information about the Third Circle,” Harry begins, but Greengrass interrupts him.

“Oh, no. First, Potter, you’re going to tell us all about your and the Weaselette’s breakup, and how Mummy Weasel reacted when she found out,” Greengrass says smugly.

“One,” says Ron, “don’t call my sister that. Two, don’t call my mum that. Three, I agree, Harry, tell us.”

Harry looks beseechingly to Patil and Nott. Patil’s bright eyes indicate that she’s equally as invested in his love life, and Nott only shrugs and says, “It’s good for morale. We’re a team, now, after all.”

Harry makes a face at them all. “Fine. Ginny and I felt we’re looking for different things out of life. We’ve been drifting for a while, I guess—”

“You _guess_?” asks Patil disbelievingly.

“— _But_ we officially broke up… two weeks ago, now? And then she introduced me to Tom.”

“‘Fit’ Tom,” says Greengrass, smirking.

“MUTANT Tom,” says Patil. When everyone looks at her, she says, “Oh, come on… You didn’t think this was all lining up a little too tidily? Potter said he _knows_ our ministry thief isn’t the book hoarding MUTANT, and he’s quietly investigating it and not sharing with the class? Scandal! And why would Potter be going to him for information on our books, information that we can’t find anywhere else, unless Potter has reason to believe Fit Tom _knows_?”

“Oh, Merlin,” says Ron. “Harry…”

“I’ve been investigating to make sure no crime has been committed,” says Harry, as mildly as he can. “From what I can determine, none of those books warrant arrest or seizure for possession. At least, not under the reclassification law that was just passed. Even the Dark artifacts we found were rather tame. At worst, they might call for a fine for not applying for a permit, but even that’s rather a heavy-handed sentence.”

“ _Unless_ one of the rituals has actually been used,” says Greengrass, glowing. “Particularly one of the gross ones. So _that’s_ why you’d done whatever it is you did to make magic visible. Not to ‘reinspect the storeroom’ at all! You went out to meet him, and you were checking him for Dark magic!”

Close enough. Perhaps even too close for comfort. “Yes, well, I didn’t find anything,” says Harry. “So I’m inclined to file it as an unlawful use of government force given the changed law, issue a public apology, and let it lie.”

“You mean that even when we get them back, we won’t be able to keep the books?” Greengrass pouts. “I don’t suppose Fit Tom would be willing to share? Maybe he likes blondes,” she speculates, twirling a strand of hair, smirking at him.

Ron snorts. “Yeah, not with the way he was staring at Harry all night when I met him.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Harry. “I asked Tom—”

“Fit Tom,” says Nott, grinning.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Oh, for—fine, I asked _Fit Tom_ about the Third Circle. He says that the time has passed to conduct the ritual, but a casual translator might not realise that, in which case we can expect a human sacrifice in three days or so.”

That silences the table.

“ _Unless_ they’re using one of the other rituals,” Harry continues, “but I don’t think we can take that chance. So what can we do to find our new MUTANT?”

Patil hums. “I’m guessing that the visualisation of the Imperius Curse didn’t give any indication of who cast it?”

“Not that I could tell,” says Harry, “but honestly, I don’t know what’d I’d look for. There were lots of little tentacle things going in every direction.”

“Yes, well, it’s considered undetectable for a reason,” Nott muses. “And the fact that after the initial casting, there’s no need for the curser and the cursed to be in close proximity to one another unless new orders are issued… That’s a major complication when it comes to narrowing down the suspects, especially since we don’t know exactly when the curse was cast. We can only guess that the casting happened during that first day after the books, et cetera, were seized, and before Jakobs joined the team.”

“Unless the caster is Jakobs,” says Ron. “She’d make the most sense at this point, I’m sorry to say.”

“The one decent junior we had,” sighs Greengrass mournfully.

“Have you had the chance to dig up anything new since this morning?” asks Harry.

“Nothing interesting on the Gringotts angle,” says Ron.

“No Floo calls at all,” says Nott. “Not that he’d need them. Turns out he lives with his mum, dad and sister.”

“Well, Muggle Mum didn’t cast the Imperius,” says Greengrass drily. “I was checking into potential spells and potions that Everett could be influenced by, but you beat me to that. All I can say for sure is that he goes through an absurd amount of Pepper Up.”

“I found something in contact tracing,” Patil volunteers. “Everett’s mum comes by the ministry muggle entrance every day to drop off his lunch.”

“Er,” says Ron. “What? That’s weird, right?”

Patil raises her brows. “I thought so. As Daphne said, she obviously can’t be the one casting the curse,” Patil nods at Greengrass, “but it’s still interesting.”

“How deep into the ministry does she get?” asks Harry.

“Just to the help desk. He comes down to meet her,” says Patil.

Ron collapses to the table with a groan. “So we either have Junior Jakobs or Muggle Mum? I hate this case.”

Harry nods absently in agreement. “I think it’s best if we’re not seen together,” he says.

Greengrass chokes.

Patil smiles at him sweetly. “Is that what you told Fit Tom?”

“ _No_ , that’s not what I—” Harry cuts himself off and glares at them. “I mean I don’t think we should be seen working together on the case. Let’s seem like we’re all going in different directions, with no idea what’s going on. Watch Jacobs, watch Everett, watch his mum, maybe, but do our best to be quiet about it.”

Nott shrugs. “I’m all for expensing my beer,” he says. “Though I’m hurt that you don’t want to go public with me, Potter. How must Fit Tom feel?”

“I hate you, and I’m leaving,” says Harry. He looks at Ron. “I’ll see you later?”

Ron grins. “Yeah, you will, and I’d better get more details if you’re expecting an ally at mum’s brunch this Sunday.”

Harry sighs. “ _Fine_ ,” he says, and he hurries away before they can tease him anymore.

* * *

Harry closes the door to his office behind the last of a long train of junior aurors with questions about case procedure.

It’s a little after he usually heads home, and he’s thinking of simply meeting Ron at the pub.

Again. It feels as though he’s been spending an inordinate amount of his time in pubs and cafes lately.

He’ll have to tell Ron the truth about Tom.

Well, he probably won’t _actually_ have to. He suspects that, if he asked, Hermione would keep this secret for him. But it would hurt her, to keep this from Ron, her fiancé, and Harry thinks that maybe it would hurt him, too.

And Tom seems to want to stay around.

Harry fingers the wrinkled piece of parchment that Tom had slipped into his pocket during lunch.

_Dinner on Saturday? Just you and me._

It sounds like the set up for a date. It _is_ the set-up for a date. When Tom comes, it’ll be a date. Harry will be on a date with Tom. Tom who is Tom Riddle. Tom who Harry will be telling Ron about tonight.

It feels like a decision.

Harry’s let himself float around, barely moored, for long enough. It’s time to sink into his roots again.

Harry sits heavily into his chair and reaches for the Stone.

“Professor?” he asks, his eyes closed. He casts a reflexive silencing charm around the office. “I know the fairytale warns against using the Resurrection Stone, but can’t it be safe in moderation? How much reliance on the Stone is too much?”

Albus Dumbledore says, “Only you can judge that, Harry.” His tone of voice suggests that he’s smiling. His eyes are probably twinkling, too.

Harry makes a face. “You are extremely unhelpful, as always. Sir.” There’s a reason Harry hasn’t reached out to his old headmaster since he met him at the train station.

“The Stone was lost for so long, Harry. Whatever secrets of its powers and its curses were learned by the heirs of Cadmus, they have not been shared with the world. And,” Albus adds dryly, “as the family was known more for their ambition than their good sense, it may well be that they learned no lessons at all.”

“More ambition than sense,” Harry muses. “Traits that you share with them, Professor?”

Harry hears a sigh.

Dumbledore says, “Yes, I suppose so. It seems a hideous irony that I, who proved myself so young to be untrustworthy with power, should have found myself so constantly in possession of it.”

Harry snorts. “If you’re bad at something, you should practise until you’re better at it. Anyway, you put yourself into those positions of power. You turned away from politics, but you became a professor. Do you think professors hold no power over their students? And then, you accepted the role of deputy headmaster and headmaster, Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock. And when you became a leader in the war, you kept everything you know to yourself rather than trusting anyone with information and getting their help and opinions. And I can think of a number of your decisions that definitely could have been improved with some constructive criticisms.”

There’s a long pause. “It sounds as though you’ve kept this bottled in for some time, Harry.”

“They kept me in a _cupboard_ under the _stairs_ ,” Harry snarls. He’s never said that out loud before. He had gone to some lengths to avoid saying it out loud, letting Ron and Hermione figure out the truth through a series of Yes/No quizzes and drinking games.

“I’m so sorry, my boy,” says Dumbledore, and Harry hates that he really does sound sorry. “Where do you think the Death Eaters would have kept you, when they found you? It would have been the work of days for even the most incompetant of them, without the blood protection keeping you safe. We could have taken you on the run, in which case you would have been raised with equal or greater privations and much more danger.”

Harry squeezes his hands into fists. “Greater privations, more danger, and people who _cared for my well-being_. Seems like an improvement to me.” Harry tries to calm himself. This isn’t even what he’d wanted to talk to Dumbledore about, but it seems that Dumbledore wasn’t wrong when he said that Harry had kept a lot bottled up inside. “For someone who spent so long lecturing me about the power of love, you seem to be curiously ignorant of it.”

“Yes,” says Dumbledore. “Why do you think that I was helpless to change the tide of the war? You had something. A power the Dark Lord knew not. Love. In truth, I understood love no better than he did, for all that I’d had more encounters with it. And more respect for it.”

They rest in silence for some time.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” says Harry at last. “You made mistakes, a lot of them, but I’d already forgiven you for them. I forgave you when I met you the last time, at the train station. I’m not sure why I came to pieces like this.”

Dumbledore smiles. “Aren’t you? Forgiving is not the same as forgetting, my boy, nor does forgiveness make the wounds any less painful. I’m grateful to you, for speaking to me like this. Perhaps, with a little corrective discipline, I may even learn something!”

“It’s never too late to teach an old wizard new tricks?” asks Harry wryly. He finally opens his eyes and looks at the shade of the old man. Dumbledore’s clothing is as eccentric as always, and the eyes beneath the half-moon spectacles are as twinkling as ever. 

“Just so, just so,” says Dumbledore cheerfully.

“Professor, about the Stone,” Harry begins.

Dumbledore interrupts him. “Harry, there is great wisdom to be learned from the past—and the dead. The dangers of the Stone are no greater than the dangers of any obsession. Trust in your family and your friends the way I did not trust in mine, and I am confident that you will use the Stone safely and well.”

“Thank you, Professor,” says Harry, and he lets Dumbledore go.

He’s not sure how long he sits there at his desk, staring into space, before a knock sounds at his door.

He cancels the silencing charm. “Enter,” he calls, and he winces when he casts a quick tempus that reveals him to be running late. The door opens as he’s standing and messily collecting his belongings into his bag. He’d never learned to be any good at that spell, and he feels a pang when he recalls Tonks’s terrible job packing for him all those years ago.

“Oh dear,” says Hermione, stepping into the office. “Why don’t I do that?”

“It’s fine,” he says. “What do you need? Only, I’m supposed to be meeting Ron soon…”

“Yes, at the pub, when you’ve already been once today,” says Hermione disapprovingly. “I have rather a suspicion as to what you’ll be discussing, and I thought you might want me there. Of course, if you don’t—I don’t want to intrude on any _boy talk_.” Hermione makes a face.

Harry laughs. “If Ron doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to come. You’re right, it might help a little.”

“Alright.” Hermione comes over to hug him tightly. “You know that we’ll back you up, no matter what? It just might take some… some adjustment, at first.”

“Believe me,” says Harry. “I know.”

“Well, then.” Hermione tucks her hand into his arm and drags him away. “Why don’t we just go to yours for dinner? Surely you’re tired of all the pub food already.”

Harry shrugs. “Fine by me.” He locks his office behind them. “Kreacher,” he calls. There is no popping sound, and Kreacher does not appear. “I’ll have two guests for supper, please,” he says. Hermione frowns at him severely, but she manages to withhold any comments.

“The meal will be ready when Master returns home,” says Kreacher.

Hermione cranes her neck behind them, but Harry knows from experience that Kreacher is not visible.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry says, and there is no response. Harry turns to Hermione. “Is Ron back at yours?”

“I think he’s still in his office. Shall we all go together, or do you need some time to yourself, first?”

Harry smiles at her. “Not today. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will be posted on 17 Oct!
> 
> Chapter 6 will be a bit longer to fit in all the revelations and wrap-up.


	6. The Reckoning

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” says Ron.

“Yes,” says Harry.

“As in, You Know Who,” says Ron.

“Yeah,” says Harry.

“As in, He Who Must Not Be Named,” says Ron.

“Yep,” says Harry.

“As in, _Lord Voldemort_ ,” says Ron.

Harry looks at Hermione. “I’m running out of ways to give an affirmative,” he tells her.

Hermione doesn’t look up from her book, which she has open on the table to the side of her half-finished plate. “It’s an internal process. He doesn’t really need you to respond.”

“As in, the Dark Lord,” says Ron.

Hermione turns the page. “He’ll wind down eventually.”

Harry shrugs and returns to his meal. “How’s the book?”

“Curiously unenlightening.” Hermione sighs. “If all books on necromancy are like this, I can see why the translation that Ginny and Tom found is so coveted.”

“Yeah.” Harry chews his cottage pie thoughtfully. “I’ve read a fair number, I suppose, and found the theory very interesting. It never occurred to me to notice the gaps in practical information, since I tended to just ask the author when I needed any clarification.”

“As in, the Heir of Slytherin,” says Ron.

Hermione’s eyes flicker up to Harry. “Yes, of course. Why don’t you ask the author of _Raising the Dead_?”

“No idea who he was,” Harry responds. “Don’t even know who the first few translators were. I found a reference to one translator in another book we have, but it turned out it was a dodgy name.”

“You need the real name to call a shade using the Stone?”

Harry considers this. “Not… precisely. But I need a real _something_. If I didn’t know their name, but I had their blood, that would be fine. Or if I knew what their soul tasted like. Smelled like? Felt like.”

Hermione makes a face at him. “I’m glad to know you’re finding your inner Dementor.”

“As in, the Father of Darkness,” says Ron.

“No one has ever called him that,” Hermione tells him, returning to her book.

Ron pouts. “You were ignoring me.”

Harry clears his throat. “You’re not… upset, right?”

“Of course I’m upset!” Ron scowls. “It’s not enough that my baby sister was possessed by You Know Who in her first year of Hogwarts, but actually she’s been possessed for eleven years on top of that, and none of us noticed?”

Harry scratches his scar reflexively, looking away.

“And _you_ ,” Ron continues, pointing his fork at Harry. “As soon as she’s free of the baggage, you dump her for her sexy tormentor!”

Harry chokes. Hermione summons him a full glass of water without looking up.

“Was it ever even her that you liked? Were you just using my sister this whole time?”

Harry gulps his water, not meeting Ron’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

Ron glares at him.

“And,” says Harry. “And I don’t know that she knows, either.”

That captures Hermione’s attention as well as Ron’s. “What do you mean? Ginny always liked you.”

“She had a crush on me when she was little,” Harry acknowledges. “An obsessive crush. And I’m fairly certain that she really did want to date me in 6th year. My attraction to her was certainly genuine, too. But the… the draw, the _rightness_ that was the basis for our relationship, that had us last so long… I don’t know who that was.” Harry closes his eyes and thinks back to those dizzying emotions that had stricken him so suddenly when he was 16, the switch from fondness for a younger sister to physical desire. Ginny had been so smart, so funny, so strong, so beautiful. But she had been all of those things the year before, too. He’d noticed her coming into her own, and he’d been proud of her, but he’d never looked at her. But then, at 15, Ginny possessed a smirky, easy arrogance that had been absent in the confidence she’d displayed the year before, a smoothness and a grace that lit his whole body on fire. Was it simply the extra year of maturity gained? “They seem to have decided between them that it was Tom.”

“Fit Tom,” says Ron.

“ _Yes_ , Merlin, ‘Fit Tom.’” Harry scowls at him. “Can we please stop it with ‘Fit Tom’?”

“How do you feel about that?” asks Hermione hesitantly. “The idea that you may have been attracted to Ginny, but it was Tom you were in love with?”

Harry exhales and tries to ignore Ron miming vomiting. “I don’t know. Voldemort was a sick excuse for a human being, as insane as he was near the end. I can’t imagine… I don’t think I could live with myself for loving him. And Tom Riddle, the one I met in the Chamber of Secrets, was already a murderer who laughed about framing an innocent child… He wasn’t exactly a nice guy, either.”

Ron looks relieved. Hermione simply waits for him patiently.

“But… whoever it is I was with all these years…” Harry licks his lips nervously. “I think that person is… is pretty great. Worth loving.”

“Loveable?” asks Ron.

Hermione snorts.

Harry says, sotto voce, “Yeah.”

Ron and Hermione exchange glances. Ron gives Hermione a very tiny nod.

“Harry,” says Hermione gently. “I’m not saying that we won’t be keeping a close eye on him for awhile, but we support you. If you decide Fit Tom is boyfriend material—”

“Please quit,” pleads Harry.

Hermione smirks at him. “—Then we’ll put up with the awkward double dates and even help you introduce him to Molly.”

“I can’t _wait_ to see Mum’s face,” agrees Ron gleefully.

Harry smiles at them both. “Thanks,” he says softly. He hesitates, then adds, “I told my Mum and Dad. And Sirius and Remus. And… Snape.”

Ron takes a deliberately big bit of food to avoid responding.

“Oh?” says Hermione, voice slightly high. “How did that go?”

Strange, how she’s more comfortable with Harry speaking to long-dead necromancers rather than his own family. But then, he supposes that he’s more likely to cross the Veil permanently for someone he loves than for the author of the 1178 edition of _Nekromanteia_.

“They were… supportive,” says Harry. “Eerily so. They’re always very… I don’t know, placid? Calm?”

Hermione nods slowly. “Is that a characteristic of the dead, in your experience?”

Harry drinks some more water, considering this. “Not everyone is happy to see me,” he says, thinking of Merope. “But yeah, I think their reactions are always much more mild than they might have been if they were still alive. And ultimately, they have to answer me and my demands.”

“Because you’re their master?” asks Hermione.

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t like thinking about it in those terms, but… “I suppose.”

“So, they’re maybe great for information, but maybe not so great for getting, er, advice? About some things?” prods Ron.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, that is the point I was coming to, Ron,” he snaps. He looks down at his plate, now almost empty. “Sorry. I just…” He straightens, firming himself, and looks up. “I don’t intend to give up the Stone, or to stop using it.”

Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but Ron shushes her.

When neither of them speak, Harry continues, “But… I do think… I mean, I admit that I’ve been depending on it too much. They have their wisdom to share, but… they’re not alive, and they haven’t been for a while. Maybe, when… when it comes to understanding matters of life, the living are the better source.”

Hermione and Ron both look relieved. Excessively so, in Harry’s opinion. “So… moderation?” asks Ron.

Harry raises his water glass in a parody of a toast. “Moderation,” he agrees solemnly, and they all drink in tandem.

They don’t speak as they pick up their dishes and carry them to the kitchen, but once they start the cleanup proper, Ron breaks the relaxed silence.

“So,” he says. “What’re you wearing to your next date with Fit Tom?”

Harry does not let his expression change as he redirects the spray of water from the tap straight into Ron’s face.

* * *

Harry _does not know what he’s wearing to his date with Tom._

He can’t help but fall back on bad habits.

"So, say that you were hypothetically going to go on a date with Voldemort," Harry begins.

"Potter, for the love of all magicks, send me back."

Snape is no help at all.

"Do you think, hypothetically, that Voldemort would prefer the traditional robes with the grey trimming or these green ones with the slanted cut everyone's wearing these days?"

"The Dark Lord would never lower himself to look at anything you've touched with your disgusting, filthy hands," sneers Bellatrix.

"So, how did Voldemort feel about embroidery?"

Abraxas Malfoy stares at him blankly. "I do not believe he ever expressed a preference in my presence."

Harry collapses facedown onto his bed, wrinkling the soft fabrics of the dress robes he's thrown down into a heap over his sheets.

He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but… it seems he has no alternative.

He stands up, brushes himself off, and heads down to the fireplace in his study.

"Hello?" he calls out as soon as the Fire Call connects. "Ginny?"

There's nothing for a moment, and then Tom's face appears in the flames. "Harry," he purrs. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Nothing!" says Harry. "At all! Just, I need to talk to Ginny. Privately."

Tom looks extremely displeased, but he nods, his fiery lips pressed together in a tight line, and then he vanishes.

A moment later, Ginny appears in his place. "Harry? Everything alright?"

"Yes, just, er… Actually, would you mind coming through?"

Ginny frowns but agrees, and Harry pulls back to make room and lift the wards.

The flames roar green, and Ginny steps lightly through and ends the call.

"Well?" she asks, when Harry says and does nothing.

Harry can see that she's getting increasingly annoyed with him, and he winces. "Why don't we sit," he says, and waves a chair over to her. He clears his throat once they're settled. "I… Listen, I know this isn't really appropriate for me to ask of you, given how close you are to Tom, and how our relationship has changed so recently," he begins, and Ginny stiffens in her chair, her hands gripping the arms so tightly that her knuckles turn white. "I just, I need to know—"

"No, Harry," Ginny interrupts sharply. "As far as I'm concerned, our relationship ended months ago. We're very firmly just friends, now. I've no residual romantic feelings for you to speak of."

"Oh, good," says Harry. He assumed as much, but having the confirmation is nice, if a little off-topic.

Ginny blinks at him.

"So then, maybe it's not too strange that I was hoping you'd help me decide what to wear for tonight?" asks Harry hopefully. "I have no idea what Tom might like. Green, probably, but I have a lot of green robes, and—"

Ginny bursts out laughing at him.

Ginny does eventually help him select an outfit, once she's managed to calm herself down. It's surprisingly fun to dig through his wardrobe with her. When he's done the same with Hermione, he always ends up feeling simultaneously more anxious and very aware of his own sartorial incompetence, but having Ginny laughing at him somehow relaxes his nerves.

"There, that's nice," says Ginny finally, looking him over. "Tom will lose his shit when he sees you."

The mirror tuts disapprovingly. "No need for that language," it says. "But you do look very handsome, dear."

Harry tugs at the high collar, and Ginny smacks his hand away. "Stop, it's perfect." She rolls up her sleeves. "Now your hair," she says grimly as she cracks her knuckles.

By the time Ginny leaves, Harry is a vision, or so she assures him. She's decided to forego the Floo and apparate home instead, so Harry waves her off to the main entrance with his thanks while he heads to the kitchen to check on supper.

He has his head in the oven when he hears Ginny exclaim, "Oh, why hello, Tom!" from the door, and he barely manages to keep himself from banging his head against the hot roof of the oven as he hurries out of the kitchen.

"You'd better appreciate all the time I put into prettying your boy up," Ginny is saying to Tom when he arrives.

"Given his baseline, I can't imagine you needed to do anything at all," Tom says, his lips curled up. He seems to be in a much better mood than he had been when Harry spoke to him during their firecall. He has a bouquet of something leaning across one arm, and he's carrying another case of butterbeer with the other.

"You have no idea, the effort this took," Harry sighs, coming closer so that he's within view of the door. "I'm going to have nightmares of Ginny coming at me with a comb for weeks."

Tom's eyes fall on him and seem to freeze. Harry bites his lip nervously, but Tom says nothing.

Harry feels his heart drop. It doesn't matter, he tries to assure himself. Tom likes him, and Tom thinks he's generally at least somewhat attractive, so if Tom doesn't like him in this particular outfit, that's no big deal. Or maybe it's the hair.

Ginny shoves Tom roughly and raises her eyebrows at him. "Well?" she asks pointedly.

"Beautiful," Tom breathes out in a rush. He flushes very slightly. "Of course, you're always beautiful," he tells Harry smoothly, his charm turned back on to the max. "But this look is very… pleasant. For a formal occasion. May I come in?"

Harry nods, feeling strangely shy.

"Bye, Harry, Tom," says Ginny, trading places with Tom in the entrance way. "Be good, boys," she says, winking, and then Tom and Harry are alone together, staring at one another.

"You do," says Tom abruptly. "Look very nice, I mean."

Harry smiles nervously. "You do, too."

Tom clears his throat. “I brought these,” he says, passing over the bouquet. “Not quite flowers, in case you had concerns for your masculinity. A variety of wild grasses native to Southeast Asia. They’re supposedly very powerful protective plants.”

“Thanks, that’s very thoughtful.” Harry takes the bouquet. For “grasses,” the bouquet is an incredible mixture of plants of different colours, shapes, and textures. The scent is divine. “I’ll just put these in water.” He leads the way into the kitchen, knowing that Tom is following him by the feeling of his eyes burning into his back. His hands are shaking slightly as he levitates a tall vase down from his highest cabinet, but he manages to get it to the counter with no mishap. “I’m surprised you were concerned with how I might react to flowers,” Harry says, filling the vase with water with a swirling motion of his wand, trimming the grasses with a slash, and finally placing them inside. He lets his finger linger on a bright blue, curling leaf. “I never complained about Gin—you, you two, I never complained about you two bringing me flowers before.”

“That was when the person bringing you flowers was a woman,” says Tom. “I was worried that it might feel different, coming from a man. And I didn’t want to… _imply_ anything about our respective gender roles.”

Harry hums, still stroking his fingers through the soft tips of the leafy grasses. “But it was always you?” he asks.

Harry hears Tom swallow behind him. Perhaps Harry isn’t the only one who’s nervous, after all. “It was always me,” Tom agrees. “I—I wanted to bring you flowers. I wanted to bring you beautiful things. And Ginny liked the thought of the woman treating the man, so she was happy to… indulge me.”

“Well, they’re lovely,” says Harry. His hands are still shaking, so he lowers them both to the edge of the counter to steady himself.

Tom steps in close behind him. “So are you,” he says, breathing the words into Harry’s ear, and Harry trembles against him.

“I—” he begins, but Tom is turning him gently and leaning down, and Harry can’t remember what he was going to say.

Kissing Tom doesn’t feel like kissing Ginny.

There are elements that are the same; both Tom and Ginny are rather taller than him, though Tom is more so, so the tilt of Harry’s head feels familiar. And Tom is just as playful and teasing as Ginny was. He runs his tongue along the seam of Harry’s lips, requesting entrance, and then, as Harry’s lips part, he turns instead to suckling and nipping at Harry’s bottom lip while Harry lets out an embarrassing whine.

But the feeling of Tom’s lips against his, their shape and their texture, it’s all different. Tom tastes different, he smells different. And when Harry grows impatient with waiting and takes the initiative for himself, sliding his tongue into Tom’s mouth—the places that make Tom respond are different, and the noises he makes are different.

Tom’s arms are braced against the counter behind Harry, but Harry’s hands are free, and he lets them wander curiously along the broad shoulders and down to the tapered waist. He teases his fingers lower, and Tom growls softly and pushes further into Harry until they’re pressed tightly against one another.

When Tom takes back control of the kiss, Harry feels like he’s drowning. The similarities to kissing Ginny are all gone. It’s only Tom, Tom, Tom’s mouth, Tom’s tongue, Tom’s hands sliding up his back and burying themselves in Harry’s hair.

There’s a noise from behind Tom, and Tom pulls away, gasping, but Harry yanks him back down again. “Don’t stop,” he pleads. “Don’t ever stop.”

Tom’s eyes flicker across Harry’s face. Harry doesn’t want to think about how he must look right now, given how wreaked Tom looks.

“Never,” Tom breathes, and then his lips are back on Harry’s.

Harry is pawing at Tom’s clothes, trying ineffectually to unbutton his irritatingly complicated dress robes, while Tom mouths at Harry’s neck, murmuring things that are alternately sweet and filthy, when a loud crack sounds and Tom is suddenly pulled sharply away from him.

Harry reaches instinctively for his wand, and then he hears the alarm. “The oven?” he asks groggily. But no, it’s—

“The Auror Alarm, Master,” says Kreacher. “Kreacher was saving the supper earlier. This is why wizards shouldn’t be allowed in Kreacher’s kitchen, Master,” Kreacher continues pointedly.

“Er, right, thanks,” says Harry, still out of breath. His mind takes a moment to parse what Kreacher just said, and then he straightens sharply, his eyes widening. “Oh, fu—the Auror Alarm. I have to—”

“You’ll splinch yourself if you try to Apparate now,” says Tom urgently. Harry is slightly offended, but Tom probably has a point, given that his knees are currently too weak to hold him up. “Let me take you there.”

“No, it’s a—a portkey,” says Harry. “It activates when we turn off the alarm.” Harry brushes back his hair with his fingers. It must have been one of his teams that responded, or he wouldn’t have been specifically alerted. “I’m fine, now, I just—” Harry looks up at Tom, and then he says, “You know what, fine. It probably has to do with your stupid books, anyway.”

Tom smirks at him and reaches out to grip his elbow.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” he tells the elf. “Could you let Ron know to raise the alarm with the team? He’ll know what to do.”

Kreacher sneers at him and disappears.

“Ready?” asks Harry.

Tom nods at him. He’s standing unnecessarily close, and Harry has to look away to get his blush under control. “Ready,” he replies.

Harry turns off the alarm, and with a violent yank and blink of the eyes, he’s somewhere else.

Harry’s heart twists when he takes in the scene. They’re in what he assumes is the Everett family home. Everett is standing in front of two women—his mother and sister?—and an older man—Everett’s father?—is collapsed against the wall. Jakobs is facing them, snarling and brandishing her wand.

A series of pops sounds, and Peters and Burnes appear. They barely seem to take in the scene before they’re rushing to stand in front of Jakobs, wands drawn in shaking hands against her.

Harry silently raises anti-apparation wards.

“Anyone want to tell me what’s happening?” asks Harry mildly.

“She appeared out of nowhere and started attacking us!” gasps the woman who is probably Everett’s sister. “I don’t even know who she is!”

If Jakobs has the rest of the team under the Imperius Curse, why are they all standing against her? Did it fade?

“You know damn well who I am and why I’m here,” snaps Jakobs. “And I didn’t start attacking you. I came to place you under arrest!”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like this’ll make for an interesting story.”

“Interesting enough to make up for crashing your date?” asks Greengrass as she walks in through the open front door just behind him; Jakobs had broken it open when she entered, he assumes. Ron, Nott, and Patil follow her. “Nice hair. Oh, and you must be Fit Tom.”

Tom looks at Harry, visibly intrigued.

Harry just barely manages to keep himself from trying to smooth out the disaster that Tom must have made of us previously unnaturally tidy hair. “This is _Tom_ , here to consult with us about the books,” says Harry.

Greengrass smirks at him. “My mistake.”

“Jakobs,” Harry barks out. “Clarification on your reason for the attempted arrest of a fellow auror?”

Jakobs’s eyes are slightly wide, but she doesn’t let them move from her target. “I’m not here for Everett. Well, not our Everett.” Despite all the wands pointed at her, her voice remains steady. “Vivienne Everett, I’m placing you under arrest for 3 counts of the Imperius Curse, invasion of the ministry, theft of ministry property, and—”

“Liar,” screams Everett’s sister. Beside her, her mother looks on with wide eyes. “Where is your evidence?”

“Give me your wand, and I’ll show you the evidence,” says Jakobs in a low growl.

“Give me all of your wands,” says Harry, “Or I’ll take them by force. Yes, you too, Jakobs.”

“Sir, I swear to you—” Jakobs begins desperately.

Harry stares her down. “Wand. Now.”

Jakobs is slow to lower her wand and hand it over. The grudging despair in her eyes makes it clear that she can’t read Harry’s internal plans for her promotion. He should get an acting award. Are there acting awards in the magical world? There should be, and he should get one.

Vivienne Everett tries to slink away, and Harry snaps up her wand with a quick twist of his wrist. She goes still and pale. Many of the witches and wizards that Harry’s met seem stunned and even frightened at easy displays of wandless magic, which is why Harry typically tries to avoid them in public. He suspects that’s not the only reason that Vivienne looks so terrified, though.

Harry hands the wands to Patil, who begins muttering, “Priori Incantatem,” under her breath, going over the seven wands one-by-one.

Harry turns back to the watching audience. “I have to agree with Miss Everett,” he says. “Jakobs, how exactly _did_ you come to the conclusion that the Imperius has been cast and that Miss Everett is behind the curse and the thefts?”

Jakobs swallows. “The whole team started acting strangely when we went out for lunch, sir,” she tells him. “I had just joined the team maybe half an hour before, so I thought maybe they were just upset at me for taking over. But the whole day after that, it seemed that everyone was tripping over themselves to avoid making progress. And then, Everett made this big deal over being the one to seal up the lockboxes at the end of the day, and I let him. I didn’t remember until a few days later, but when I was checking to make sure that everything had been sealed correctly, I saw that a record was kept of who did the sealing. And when I remembered that, I thought maybe a record was kept of who did the unsealing. Sure enough, when I checked, there was a record right there stating that Everett unsealed and emptied the lockboxes!”

Everett’s mother gasps, shaking her head. “No, Pierre is a good boy! He works so hard at his job, he would never—”

“I don’t think he did it willingly,” says Jakobs. “And I don’t think you do, either, sir, or you would have arrested him already. You had to know about the lockbox record. So he must be controlled by something.”

“And you jumped to the Imperius Curse?” asks Harry skeptically. Behind him, he hears Ron murmur, and Vivienne Everett freezes into a full body bind from where she’d been trying to sneak away.

“It’s a well-known curse,” says Jakobs, flushing.

“Stop picking on her, Potter,” says Greengrass. “You jumped straight to the Imperius Curse, too.”

Patil interrupts. “She must have renewed the casting recently. How convenient for us. There are three casts of the Imperius Curse on her wand.”

Vivienne whimpers from where she’s frozen on the ground.

Harry looks back to Jakobs. “Well? How did you decide on Miss Everett?”

Jakobs is more relaxed now that the magical evidence points in her favour. “Everyone on the team was acting strange, not just Everett, so I started looking into people they’d all come into contact with. Then I remembered that the whole team had gone down to meet Everett’s sister when she dropped off his lunch that day. And when I looked into her, things kept coming up. She’s been skipping out on work, but she’s still been coming by the ministry, things like that.” Jakobs shrugs uncomfortably. “When I approached her with questions, she spooked. I think she had some of the stolen property on her person at the time.”

“Let her up,” Harry tells Ron. Ron removes the body bind, allowing Vivienne to speak, but he adds magical cuffs to her hands and feet. “Miss Everett, do you have anything you’d like to disagree with or add to Junior Auror Jakobs’s statement?” Vivienne looks away. “Third Circle?” he prods. “Or Returning Reign?”

Vivienne mutters something.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” says Harry pleasantly.

“Returning Reign,” she growls out.

Harry sees Tom relax beside him out of the corner of his eye.

“And whose reign did you intend to return?”

“It’s just temporary!” she snaps. “You idiots don’t know anything! The amount of knowledge that has been lost as you purge your way through our world! Returning Reign is just a summoning spell.”

Harry fights not to roll his eyes at her. “I’m aware of what the Returning Reign is and does, Miss Everett, thank you. I apologise for my play on words. Whose soul were you summoning?”

Vivienne’s chin turns up stubbornly. “You Know Who’s,” she says definitely.

Everett’s mother starts crying.

“Not to hurt anyone,” insists Vivienne, speaking more to her mother than to anyone else, now. “But he was so powerful. He was immortal, really immortal! I was going to ask him how!”

Greengrass sneers. “Wow, Potter. At least you were right about the MUTANT having a six-year old’s motivation.”

“He became immortal by hurting people,” says Tom cheerfully to Vivenne. “I’ll happily demonstrate, if you like.”

Harry kicks him.

The arrest goes smoothly after that. The books and artifacts are found, the Imperius Curses are lifted, and everyone is taken into the ministry to give their formal statements. Vivienne Everett is locked up, pending trial.

After the Everetts and juniors are sent home, Harry collapses into his chair in his office. Everyone else crowds in after him.

“I guess I should probably do the paperwork,” he says mournfully. “At least you have paperwork, too.” He flicks his wand and float stacks of scrolls over to the other aurors, feeling somewhat mollified. Misery loves company, and all that.

“Drink this,” says Tom, appearing with a steaming cup of tea.

“Oooh, fit _and_ sweet,” says Greengrass, eying up Tom with interest. “Where did you say you found him?”

Tom smirks at Harry, smug. “There was some confusion over an old book,” he says. “Ginevra was the one whole introduced us.”

“I can’t believe she was willing to give you up,” says Patil. Her gaze is lingering on Tom just long enough to make Harry twitch, especially given the way Tom is preening at the attention.

Ron makes a disgusted face in the background.

Harry shrugs at him, helpless.

A tapping on the window interrupts them, and Harry frowns and lets the owl in. “Is that your parents’ owl?” he asks Ron dubiously. Then he sees the bright red envelope clasped in the owl’s talons and winces. “Er… Please tell me that’s for you.”

Tom leans his hip against the desk, grinning. “We can also see your name on it, love. Open it up.”

As Harry reaches out tentatively to untie the letter, he sees Nott mouthing ‘love,’ at him. Harry makes a rude hand gesture in response, scowling, and the owl nips his fingers to chastise him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry mutters. “So, if you could all excuse me?” The letter is starting to vibrate in his hands.

“Oh, Potter,” says Greengrass pityingly. “We wouldn’t miss this for the _world_.”

Harry sighs. He opens the letter.

“HARRY JAMES POTTER,” Mrs. Weasley’s voice screeches. “HOW DARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE FAMILY, BUT APPARENTLY I WAS MISTAKEN.”

Harry flinches. Tom reaches out to pull Harry into his arms, and Ron shakes his head. _She doesn’t mean it like that,_ his eyes are saying, but Harry can’t help the hurt. It’s a sore spot for him.

“HERE I FIND THAT YOU AND GINNY HAVE BEEN BROKEN UP FOR WHO KNOWS HOW LONG, AND YOU’RE ALREADY SEEING SOMEONE ELSE, AND DID ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL POOR MOLLY? DID ANYONE THINK I MIGHT WANT TO KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON IN MY OWN CHILDREN’S LIVES?”

Tom huffs a laugh against Harry’s hair.

“I EXPECT YOU _AND_ YOUR YOUNG MAN FOR BRUNCH TOMORROW. NO EXCEPTIONS.”

Harry peeks at Tom, who’s now laughing in earnest. So is everyone else in the room, apparently.

“AND I MADE TREACLE TART, SINCE IT’S YOUR FAVOURITE, DEAR. SEND ME A LIST OF SOME THINGS YOUR YOUNG MAN LIKES SO I HAVE THEM READY.”

“She never makes _me_ my favourite,” says Ron, pouting.

“ALL MY LOVE, MOLLY.”

With that, the Howler burns to ash.

When the echoes of Molly’s voice have faded, Harry becomes aware of another tapping at the window. He pulls away from Tom to unburden this owl as well.

_Hi Harry (and Tom!)—sorry to interrupt, but mum stopped by, and it slipped out. Expect a very loud invitation to brunch coming your way. Hannibal ad portas, and all that! —GW_

“A little late, Ginny,” mutters Harry. “Rome has already fallen.”

“Well,” says Greengrass. “I don’t know about you, but I’m filing the absolute minimum and saving the rest for Monday. Sorry about your date, Fit Tom.”

“Oh, I had a perfectly lovely time,” says Tom, evidently still enjoying his appellation way more than he should.

“That didn’t come from me,” Harry feels the need to point out. “I never called you Fit Tom.”

Ron snorts. “You never needed to, mate. Your eyes said it all.”

That’s worse, isn’t it? That’s worse. Harry flushes bright red.

“It was very nice to meet all of you,” says Tom. “And to see you again, Ron. But if you wouldn’t mind, Harry needs to finish his paperwork very quickly so that we can get back to our date.”

“Scat,” says Harry.

The team files out of the room, laughing at him and shooting him obnoxious thumbs up signs.

“Quickly, now,” says Tom, trailing his finger down the back of Harry’s neck. “Or I might get impatient.”

Harry shivers and gets to work.

* * *

EPILOGUE

* * *

Harry is ready for brunch—physically, not emotionally. Tom left to get clean clothes, but he’s set to come back so that they can go to the Burrow together. 

Harry hesitates, looking at the clock, but he thinks he has time. “Sorry to bother you, Professor Dumbledore,” he says. “I just had a few more things… er… hello?”

“Insolent children,” says the shade of Gellert Grindelwald. “Calling for shades carelessly without any attention to the time differences or what we may be doing at the time.”

Harry stares. “Er… There are time differences?”

“No, Harry,” says Albus, coming into view beside the Dark Lord Grindelwald. “I’m afraid he’s only teasing you. I hope you don’t mind that Gellert tagged along. He was rather insistent.”

“Er,” says Harry. “Not at… all? Sorry, I didn’t realise that was possible.”

“Lazy,” sighs Gellert, shaking his head. “Unambitious. No interest in pushing the boundaries of knowledge.”

Harry scowls at him.

“You had some words you wanted to share with me, Harry?” prods Albus cheerfully.

Harry grins at him. “Yeah, I did. And they are: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak.”

Albus laughs while Gellert rolls his eyes exasperatedly.

“I wanted to ask you about the Stone again, sir,” Harry continues, smirking at Gellert. “See, now that I’m dating a resurrected Tom Riddle—”

“Come again?” asks Albus weakly.

“—I was wondering if it’s, you know, okay that I’m keeping his family heirloom from him. I don’t really want to give it up, but…” Harry shrugs, looking down. “I feel like I should.”

“Whomever it belonged to in the past, it’s yours now,” Albus tells him, recovering himself and visibly making the decision not to ask. “But perhaps this is something you should discuss with him, and not us.”

Harry nods, sighing. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

Albus smiles at him. “There’s no need to be so forlorn, my boy. You may find yourself less in need of the Stone than you previously thought.”

Harry flushes. “I mean, I’m working on being less emotionally and socially dependent on it,” he tries, realising that this current conversation probably does not present his case in the best possible light.

“What he means, child, is that the Stone is merely a tool. A crutch.” Grindelwald looks down his nose at him. “Surely you’ve progressed beyond it, by now.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “I can call beyond the Veil without the Stone?” he asks. The idea had never occurred to him.

Albus smiles at him. “My boy, think to yourself: how did you call us here today? What precisely did you do?”

“I…” Harry tries to think back. “I just… called?” Did he channel the call through the Stone? He doesn’t remember. The whole process just feels automatic these days.

“The Stone is precise,” says Grindelwald. “Its call is ordered and controlled. I would never have been able to hitchhike my way here if you had called for Albus and only Albus using the Stone. I imagine you haven’t been truly depending on the Stone to call your dead for some time.”

“...Oh.”

The door chime sounds. Tom must be back.

“Master best be answering the door for hisself!” yells Kreacher. “It being Kreacher’s day off!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Harry looks back at the two old men. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, then.”

“At decent hours!” Gellert insists, smirking.

Albus shushes him, smiling. “At any time,” he says, and they both fade away.

Harry opens the door to find that Tom has brought back more flowers. A _lot_ more flowers.

“Are those all for me?” he asks, grinning.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Of course not, love. This one,” he hefts up the larger, more absurdly overdone of the two bouquets, “is for Molly.”

Harry smiles at him. “I see you’re aiming to impress.” He waves Tom in and goes to find another vase.

“It’s not just for you,” says Tom quietly. “They’ve been my family, too, for the past eleven years. Irritating as they are, I don’t want to lose them.”

Harry reaches out to grip his hand. “You won’t.”

Tom tugs him in close and wraps him in his arms. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” he says.

Harry stretches up to press a kiss against the bottom side of Tom’s jaw. “You won’t.” he repeats softly. After a long moment, Harry pulls away. “Well, let’s go,” he says, reclaiming Tom’s hand. “We have our lives to live, you and I.”

“Yes,” says Tom wonderingly. “We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end! Thank you so much for all your amazing kudos and comments! I hope you enjoyed reading this (extremely self-indulgent, silly) fic as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> As I mentioned before, I have a sort of prequel in the works. It focusses on the development of the Ginny & Tom dynamic, and it’s pretty much a short collection of character-driven snippets from her Hogwarts years. It’s not ready yet, but I’ll probably post it at some point in November, all in one go rather than chapter-by-chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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